


Neither Here Nor There

by PennyLane



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyLane/pseuds/PennyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a bust, Peter Venkman comes in contact with a cursed mirror and the team must find a counterspell or risk losing the Peter they know forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Here Nor There

 

 

 

            "Grmmphfpg."

 

            "Yes, good morning, Peter," Egon Spengler replied, his attention deeply absorbed in the morning paper.

 

            "Krmufpe, mnph mnngs."

 

            "Coffee, no eggs," the physicist continued to translate automatically, earning a grin from Ray Stantz and a bleary-eyed glare from Peter Venkman.

 

            Winston Zeddemore set a cup of steaming, black coffee in front of the barely-awake psychologist, his dark eyes twinkling. "Late night, Pete?"

 

            When Venkman didn't answer immediately, Egon dropped the paper a fraction and gave him an expectant look over the top of his glasses. "No, Winston," Peter replied, his words carefully and painfully enunciated, "an early morning." With that, he made a face at Spengler, who simply quirked an eyebrow and raised the paper again to continue his reading.

 

            Ray watched the entire exchange with a feeling of happy contentment. It just wouldn't be morning around the fire hall if Peter didn't stumble to the breakfast table in a desperate search of coffee. Nor would it feel like morning if Egon didn't translate the incoherent mumbling that came from Peter until he got enough of the restorative liquid in his system to jar him back to the world of the living. The occultist finished his eggs, watching with amusement as Venkman drained one cup of coffee, then started on another, his eyes closed and something like bliss on his face as he allowed the caffeine to work its magic.

 

            "Wait till I get my hands on Janine," the psychologist announced grimly, setting his cup down and finally opening his eyes. "She knows better than to set up a bust at eight o'clock in the morning."

 

            "Oh, Janine didn't set this up," Ray corrected. "I did."

 

            A pair of narrowed emerald eyes turned slowly to regard him with patent disbelief. " _You_ did?"

 

            The occultist shrugged cheerfully. "It sounded like an easy bust."

 

            "Besides," a deep, dry voice rumbled from behind the paper, "what better way to start off your day than by getting slimed by a class five ectoplasmic manifestation?"

 

            The psychologist shifted his glare to the man behind the newspaper. But before he could open his mouth to make a suitably caustic retort, Zeddemore interceded. "And if we're going to make that eight o'clock bust, we'd better get going, guys." He moved past the table to go downstairs as the other three began stirring, Peter with a heartfelt groan of exertion.

 

            "Come on, Peter, it'll be fun," Ray encouraged him. "It's in your old neighborhood—Brooklyn."

 

            Venkman took one final gulp of coffee before standing. "Busting a class five in Brooklyn at eight o'clock in the morning is not my idea of 'fun', Ray," he said sourly.

 

            "Cheer up, Peter," Egon advised, blue eyes glinting with mischief. "With any luck, we'll have time to come back here and shower before we go to that nine o'clock bust Ray also scheduled for us this morning."

 

            Ray shot a grin at the physicist as Peter wailed and stomped out of the room. "Egon, I didn't schedule any busts for nine o'clock."

 

            Spengler blinked in innocent surprise. "Really? Well, I suppose we'll have to inform Peter of my error...later."

 

            Stantz shook his head as he followed the taller man down the stairs. "You're not going to let up until you've gotten him back for that little stunt he pulled with Slimer and your test tube, are you?"

 

            The blond man smiled serenely as they reached the ground floor. "Nope."

 

 

            "So where is this bust anyway?" Peter asked drowsily from the back of Ecto. He had slumped back comfortably in the seat, eyes already closed in preparation of grabbing a short nap.

 

            "Brooklyn," Ray announced from the shotgun position up front.

 

            "Brooklyn's a big neighborhood, Ray. Where in Brooklyn?"

 

            Stantz consulted the work order in his hand. "704 Rosemont Street."

 

            At that, Peter stirred, opening his eyes and frowning slightly. Egon watched him with interest. "Mean something to you?"

 

            Venkman glanced at him and Egon saw something like unease in the back of his eyes before the psychologist looked away again. "I think so." He was silent for a moment, then perhaps aware of Spengler's eyes still on him, added, "I think I lived there once."

 

            Winston glanced into the rear view mirror. "You think?"

 

            The psychologist shrugged. "We moved around a lot. We pretty much stayed in Brooklyn, but there for a few years I was kept kind of busy memorizing addresses."

 

            "Wow, a bust at someplace you used to live!" Ray turned around, his brown eyes shining with excitement. "This could be great!"

 

            Peter didn't look like he considered the prospect so 'great', but said nothing to dampen Ray's enthusiasm. Instead he closed his eyes again, mumbling, "Tell me how great it is after that class five slimes you."

  

            "Here we are. Seven-oh-four Rosemont."

 

            Peter opened his eyes at Ray's announcement and slowly climbed out of Ecto, standing to silently regard the crumbling tenement in front of them. The neighborhood hadn't changed much in the years since he'd left it; it was still a crummy neighborhood filled with crummy houses and people who couldn't afford anything better. His mouth tightened as he remembered the struggles he and his mother had faced during the year they lived here. It brought back some unpleasant memories...memories he hadn't thought of in a long time. He took a deep breath and held it. He was grateful his mother had lived to see him become a success and find his niche as a Ghostbuster. And he knew how happy she had been to know he was content with his life and had found three friends he cared for so much and who would stick by him, no matter what. He let out his pent-up breath slowly. His childhood years hadn't been easy ones for either of them, but at least these last years he had been able to afford to make her life a little easier and give her things she never had when he was a boy.

 

            "Is this it, Peter?"

 

            Jarred out of his musings, he looked around at Stantz' question and nodded. "Yeah, this is it." A wry smile raised one side of his mouth. "Looked a lot bigger when I was eight."

 

            "Everything does," Zeddemore agreed, shrugging into his proton pack. "So what's the story here, Ray?"

 

            Ray glanced at Peter before answering. "The haunting only came about recently. The owner said the last tenants were fooling around with witchcraft and now he can't rent the place because of the strange things going on." Stantz looked troubled. "I questioned Mr Pierce pretty closely about those tenants. He said there were three of them—a brother, a sister and another woman—and the impression he got was that they were just experimenting. When he asked the brother about it, he said the guy insisted they were just messing around with magic and it wasn't any big deal. Mr. Pierce didn't seem to think they were associated with any organized group or coven."

 

            Egon was fiddling with his P.K.E. meter, his face thoughtful as he concentrated on the readings. "That would make sense. They could have accidentally summoned up a spirit in the course of their experimentation with rituals."

 

            Ray's auburn head bobbed in agreement. "That's what I think. They probably got it here, then they didn't know what to do with it, so they packed up and skipped in the middle of the night."

 

            "Geez, these amateur witches and warlocks tick me off," Peter grumbled.

 

            "The legitimate witches and warlocks aren't too thrilled with them, either," Ray pointed out. "When word gets out about something like this—"

 

            "—sets back witchcraft three hundred years, right?" Venkman broke in cheerfully.

 

            "Something like that," Ray said dryly. "Is there a back door to this place?"

 

            The psychologist nodded toward a barely discernible overgrown path at the side of the house. "Just follow that."

 

            Stantz hitched his proton pack a little more comfortably on his back. "Winston, why don't you and I go in that way and Pete and Egon can take the front. Okay with you guys?"

 

            Still studying his meter, Spengler nodded absently. "Of course, Raymond," he answered, then frowned. "That's odd," he murmured.

 

            "What's odd?" Peter demanded.

 

            "I'm getting readings from that class five, but there are other readings as well, not strong, but there is definitely psi activity in that house."

 

            "Probably residue from whatever the tenants had been doing," Ray mused and looked a little worried. "I wish people wouldn't mess with things they don't understand. It's hard to tell what they might have done."

 

            "Just watch yourselves," Peter ordered, pulling his pack out of the back of Ecto. "I don't want to go in there and find you got turned into a chicken or something." He glanced at Egon and flashed a grin. "Although, that _is_ more Egon's bag."

 

            The physicist simply ignored him as he shrugged into his own pack. Rolling his eyes, Ray headed down the narrow path, Winston right behind him.

 

            As he waited for Egon to suit up, Peter leaned back against Ecto and considered the house where he had spent one of the worst years of his life.

 

            "Memories, Peter?"

 

            The soft voice by his side brought him to attention and he started to blow off the question until he saw the understanding in Egon's eyes. Through the years they had been together, he had told his friend enough about his past for Spengler to know his childhood hadn't exactly been ideal. He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I only lived here a year, but, believe me, Spengs, it wasn't a year I'd like to live over. My grandma died, my mom got really sick, and my dad was gone practically the whole time." He took a deep breath. "Of course, what I know now and didn't know then was that Pop got caught running a scam in Texas and ended up in jail down there. For most of the year all we had to live on was what Mom was making at her job. With Dad in jail and Grandma dying and Mom trying to raise me and keep us in food and a roof over our heads, it's no wonder it all finally caught up with her. But I didn't understand any of that then; all I knew was that I was eight years old and thought I was losing everyone I loved." He lapsed into silence, then felt Egon's hand on his shoulder and shot his friend an embarrassed grin. "But, hey, we're here to kick some ectoplasmic butt, not play This Is Your Life, right?"

 

            Spengler nodded, willing to take the cue and drop the subject, but his fingers tightened briefly on Peter's shoulder before his hand dropped away. "After you."

 

            "Why not?" With a jauntiness he didn't feel, Peter led the way up the front steps.

 

            As soon as they stepped inside the small foyer they could hear footsteps overhead. Ray and Winston had taken the upstairs. Spengler played the P.K.E. meter around and frowned. "There's interference from that psi residue; I can't get a clear reading on the class five. It's here, but the reading is too diffuse to get a direction." He looked at Peter over the top of his glasses. "Basement?"

 

            "Yeah," Venkman answered slowly, then gave his older friend a hopeful look.

 

            Reading that look correctly, Spengler pushed his glasses up to their proper position on his nose and sighed. "All right. I'll take the basement."

 

            The psychologist brightened. "You'll love it down there, Spengs. It's a great place for finding fungi."

 

            Spengler grimaced, then headed for the old wooden door Peter pointed out and carefully made his way down the narrow stairs to the basement. Left alone in the downstairs, Peter stood for a moment in the silence, then slowly began walking through the empty rooms, his footfalls echoing hollowly.

 

            Standing in the doorway to the small, outmoded kitchen, he stared at it for a long time, then closed his eyes as the memories came wafting back.

  

_"Mom, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" His voice was thin with anxiety, but his mother quickly wiped away her tears, slid the piece of paper she had been reading into her lap and adopted a reassuring smile._

_"Nothing, sweetheart. Mommy's just tired, that's all." She reached out and finger-combed his tousled hair into order. "How was school today?"_

_He made a face. "Okay."_

_"Just okay?"_

_He shrugged his thin shoulders. "Billy Cramer wore his new Cub Scout uniform today. All the Cub Scouts wore their uniforms today." His mother looked like she was going to cry again, and he could have bit his tongue off for bringing it up._

_"Peter, we talked about this," she said gently. "I wish I could afford it, but I just can't_ —"

 

            _"I know," he said quickly. "It doesn't matter." He grinned impishly. "Billy Cramer looked like a jerk anyway."_

 

            _"Peter_ —"

 

            _"I made supper," he interrupted proudly, trying to forestall a scolding. "Spaghetti-o's."_

_"Spaghetti-o's?" His mother smiled, fondly ruffling his hair. "Now how in the world did you know I was hungry for Spaghetti-o's?"_

  

            Wiping his eyes, Peter quickly turned away from the kitchen. No ghosts there except ones from his own past. A few more steps brought him into the narrow living room. He studied a nearby wall with a frown. He could just make out the shape of a pentagram that even the landlord's paint job hadn't been able to completely obliterate.

 

            Turning away from that, he let his eyes travel to the far corner of the room where their tiny, scraggly Christmas tree had resided the year he had lived here. His mom had tried so hard that year to give him a Christmas. With what he had managed to save up from doing neighborhood chores, he was able to buy her a small, amber glass dish at the five and ten store. He remembered she told him was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. He only had one thing under the tree that year—but that one thing was a genuine Mickey Mantle baseball glove. Remembering that now, he sighed shakily. "Geez, Mom," he whispered, "how many lunches did you go without to buy me that?"

 

            Abruptly, he turned away and snatched the P.K.E. meter from his belt. He'd better stop this and get himself back on track fast. It still hurt to think about his mother—the loss was still too recent—and indulging in these kinds of memories wasn't going to help. The meter whined ominously and Peter looked around sharply, pulling his blaster with his other hand. The little meter was going nuts, but there was no class five around that he could see.

 

            Relaxing fractionally, Peter took a slow turn around the room, trying to lock in on whatever it was that was setting it off. Remembering Ray's caution about what might have been left behind from botched witchcraft practices, he proceeded warily. As he passed by the far wall, he noticed an oversized, old mirror hanging there. It must have been a beauty once, but the brass filigree that surrounded it was tarnished now and the mirror surface was dull with age. Still, it was a mirror. Purely out of habit, he stepped in front of it to check his reflection, stowing his thrower and automatically raising a hand to brush his hair into place should it need it. And he froze, hand still poised by his hair. The image staring back at him from that mirror wasn't him. Rather it _was_ him...but it wasn't.

 

            Mesmerized by the reflection in the mirror, Peter stepped closer and, not even registering the fact that the P.K.E. meter was screaming a warning, without even realizing what he was doing, he reached out and touched the glass...

  

            Egon carefully brushed the cobwebs out of his hair, grimacing distastefully as a fat black spider dropped to the floor and skittered away. Fungi indeed. No wonder Peter wanted him to come down here. He had already encountered rats, cockroaches, centipedes and spiders: A Peter Venkman nightmare. Perhaps it was just as well he had allowed Peter to stay upstairs; he had a feeling his friend was uneasy enough coming into this house and confronting some obviously painful memories. Adding rats and cockroaches to the formula would not have been a good idea. Well, wherever that class five was, it wasn't down here. Perhaps the others were having better luck. Brushing the dirt and dust off his uniform, Egon headed for the stairs.

 

            He was nearly to the top when he heard Peter's voice raised in quizzical concern. "Mom? Mom, where are you?"

 

            For an instant, Spengler froze in mid-stride, not sure he had really heard what he thought he heard. Then Peter called out again, unmistakably asking for his mother. _Trouble_ , Egon thought grimly and took the last steps in one swift lunge.

 

            When Spengler burst into the living room, Peter was standing in the middle of the room, proton pack dropped at his feet, gazing around with an anxious look on his thin face.

 

            "Peter—what—" Spengler broke off as the psychologist whirled around at the sound of his voice, something like fear flashing across Venkman's features. "Peter, what is it? What—"

 

            "Who are you?" the younger man demanded, his voice pitched higher than normal. "Who are you and what're you doing here?" There was an almost childish quality to his tone and his hands were clenched into fists by his side. "Who _are_ you?" Peter repeated, his voice climbing to the point of breaking. "And _where's my mom_?"

 

            It took a massive effort, but Egon managed to keep his own face carefully composed. He studied Venkman closely, noting especially the fear in the psychologist's green eyes and the unnerving bewilderment on his face. "Peter," he said very carefully, "what's wrong? You know who I am, don't you?" He took one careful step toward his friend, freezing when Peter began to backpedal hastily.

 

            "Who are you?" Peter demanded again. "And what've you done with my mom?!"

 

            When Peter took those steps backward, he stepped in line with a mirror on the wall and Egon's eyes flicked automatically to the reflected image. His breath caught in his chest as his eyes flew back to Peter, then to the mirror again. "Oh no..." The image reflected in that mirror wasn't the image of Peter Venkman. Or, rather, it wasn't the image of _his_ Peter. It was the reflection of a small boy, perhaps seven—eight?—years old, a boy with dark, tousled hair, enormous green eyes...a boy who was very, very frightened and who was trying to hide it with anger. Egon's heart dropped into his boots. Raising the P.K.E. meter, he aimed it at the mirror. The needle jumped in response and his jaw clenched at the sound of the high-pitched whine that resulted. "Damn," he whispered. Peter was still standing in the center of the room watching him with frightened, suspicious eyes. Very carefully so as not to startle him, Egon made some minute adjustments to the meter, then surreptitiously turned it on the psychologist, holding his breath. After a moment, he let the breath out in relief as Peter's normal biorhythm registered. For one heart-stopping moment he had feared that the adult _essense_ of his friend had somehow been trapped in that mirror, but Venkman's readings were reassuringly normal. There was no possession, and this wasn't some doppelganger. It was really Peter. But it wasn't the Peter they had come here with.

 

            "Here it comes!" Ray Stantz' enthusiastic shout and the sound of heavy thumping on the stairs announced the arrival of the other Ghostbusters in full pursuit. "Heads up, guys!"

 

            No sooner was that warning given than something ugly and the color of grape juice swooped into the room, shrieking incoherently. Right behind the manifestation thundered Ray and Winston, beams of proton energy streaming from their rifles. Peter had frozen, his face a study of confusion and terror as the class five spun overhead, then turned and dove straight for him.

 

            "Oh, no." Springing at Peter, Egon tackled the younger man around the waist and knocked him to the floor, holding him down as the air above their heads crackled with proton energy. There was more shouting from Ray and some under-his-breath cursing from Winston as the two of them struggled to contain the class five by themselves. They could have used his help, but Egon didn't dare let go of Peter to add his own firepower. Even though the psychologist was curled up in a tight ball beneath him, Egon was afraid if he took his restraining arm away, Venkman might panic and jump to his feet, right into the path of the proton streams. Winston and Ray would be expecting Peter to react normally, and there was no time to warn them of that danger now. Instead, keeping Peter pinned flat with one arm, he snaked his other around and unsnapped the trap from his utility belt. "Trap out!" he shouted and flung the miniature containment unit out into the center of the room.

 

            "Egon, we could use some help here," Zeddemore grunted, struggling to hold the shrieking class five in his stream.

 

            "Can't," he snapped. "Either get it contained or let it go!"

 

            Overhead Ray and Winston exchanged a confused look. "What?" Stantz moved a little closer to the two huddled men. "Egon, what's wrong with—"

 

            "Watch your stream, Ray!" Zeddemore growled, moving to compensate when Stantz' stream slipped along with his attention.

 

            "Sorry." Ray threw one more worried look at the huddled Peter, then turned his full concentration on the struggling ghost. "Can you hit the trigger, Egon?"

 

            "Got it," Spengler acknowledged, poising his hand above the pedal.

 

            Ray made one final adjustment in his stream, then nodded, "Now!"

 

            Egon slammed his hand down on the trigger. There was a flash of bright light, one last unearthly scream, then blessed silence as the ghost was unceremoniously sucked into the trap. For a moment after the trap doors snapped shut no one moved. Then suddenly everyone moved at once.

 

            Ray and Winston thudded over to the men on the floor, Egon untangled himself from Peter and sat up, and Peter fought wildly to get out of his grip. "Easy, Peter, take it easy," he soothed, struggling to hold onto the younger man.

 

            From his grip around Peter's wrist, Egon could feel the younger man's pulse beating wildly. "What was that thing?" Peter demanded, his voice cracking with fear and shock. "And who are you? And _where's my mom_?!"

 

            Ray dropped down beside them, his brown eyes wide. "What's wrong with him, Egon?" he whispered. "Peter? Peter, can you hear me? It's Ray." He reached out to touch the psychologist's arm, but Venkman pulled back out of his reach. Stantz shot an alarmed look at Spengler. "Egon?"

 

            The physicist gave a barely perceptible nod toward the mirror. "The mirror," he said in an undertone. "Look at his reflection."

 

            Puzzled, Ray raised his eyes to the mirror on the wall and Egon saw his eyes widen. Stantz' gaze shot back to Egon. "Peter?"

 

            Spengler nodded briefly, then turned to Venkman, who was watching them like some trapped wild animal. He knew he had to gain Peter's trust in a hurry if they were going to help him, but also knew that winning the trust of an eight-year-old Peter Venkman would probably be no easier than earning the trust of the adult version. In the space of seconds, he thought of and discarded a hundred possible ways to handle this and settled for the one he was certain would work. "You don't know us, Peter," he said very carefully, "but we're friends of your father's."

 

            "Dad?" Immediately some of the suspicion faded from his eyes and Peter's thin face brightened with hope. It didn't surprise Egon in the least that the mention of Peter's father caused this reaction in the psychologist; he had seen it too many times himself. "He's here? He came home? Where is he?" He looked around eagerly as if he expected to see his father materialize in the room.

 

            "No, Peter, he's not here," Egon explained gently. Remembering the disappointments that he had been witness to over the years and thinking of all the others Peter must have experienced, Spengler added, "He wanted to be here, but he couldn't."

 

            Disappointment flooded the thin face, but Peter covered it up almost immediately, lifting his chin defiantly and assuming a familiar give-nothing-away expression. _Amazing_ , Egon thought inanely, _he was doing it even then_. "I know," Peter said, too quickly. "My dad's business is real important. He's away a lot doing important stuff. He wants to be here, but he can't be sometimes."

 

            Egon nodded solemnly. "That's right, Peter. That's why he sent us, because he couldn't be here."

 

            Wary green eyes flicked to take in Ray and Winston. "Where's my mom?"

 

            Remembering what Peter had told him just a short time ago, Egon fought a swift battle within himself, then made the only decision he thought possible. "Your grandmother is sick, Peter, and your mother had to go stay with her for a while, to take care of her."

 

            Venkman's face fell. "Grandma's sick again?" he asked in a small voice. "She's been sick a lot." He looked away so they couldn't see the expression on his face. "Mom didn't even say goodbye."

 

            _All I knew was that I was eight years old and I thought I was losing everyone I loved._ Way to go, genius, the physicist rebuked himself in disgust. Why didn't you just tell him he'd been abandoned while you were at it? He gave the arm in his grip a reassuring squeeze, softening his tone. "She had to leave unexpectedly; I'm afraid there wasn't time." Dipping his head, he looked into the confused green eyes. "She said you were a very brave young man and you would understand."

 

            Peter shot him a look and Egon saw the question flash in his eyes that any child would have asked under the circumstances: _Who's going to take care of me?_ But instead of giving voice to that question, Peter drew himself up straight. "Yeah. And I can take care of myself."

 

            "Of course you can," Egon agreed solemnly. "But your mother and father would worry if they knew you were here alone. That's why they sent us—so you wouldn't have to be alone."

 

            Relief flickered across Venkman's features, but he covered it up immediately by turning a sharp look on the blinking trap. "What was that thing?" he demanded, pointing at the blinking trap. "And what did you do to it? And where did it come from? And who are—"

 

            "Whoa, that's a lot of questions from such a little guy," Ray interrupted with a friendly smile. Egon looked up at him, a smile touching his own lips. It was obvious that Stantz was still shaken by what he had seen in the mirror, but it was also obvious he was determined not to let Peter see that.

 

            "I'm not so little," Peter objected. "I'm eight years old!"

 

            "Eight years old," Ray said with respect. "You're right, that's not so little. My name is Ray, and this is Egon, and that is Winston. We're going to be looking out for you while your mom and dad are gone. And guess what?" Stantz was grinning like a kid about to share a secret. "We live in a firehouse!"

 

            The green eyes widened with reluctant interest. "A real firehouse?"

 

            "Yep, and we've got a car outside with a siren and everything." Ray turned to Winston. "Winston, why don't you take Peter outside and show him the car—"

 

            "Can I run the siren?"

 

            "Sure, why not?" Winston sauntered up to join them as Peter scrambled to his feet. The black man looked a little shaken himself, but like Ray, he was covering it well. "It's right outside." As he guided Peter out of the room, he muttered to Egon under his breath, "You guys _are_ gonna figure this thing out, right?"

 

            Spengler nodded grimly. "We're going to do our damnedest," he promised.

 

            Egon and Ray could hear Peter's high tenor voice as he and Zeddemore left the house. "Are you guys firemen or something?"

 

            "Or something," Winston agreed.

 

            Once Peter was safely out of earshot, Ray let out an explosive breath and jumped to his feet, heading straight for the mirror.

 

            "Be careful, Raymond—"

 

            But Ray was already all over the mirror, peering into it, frowning at the design, running his fingers over the glass.

 

            Egon was by his side in an instant, knocking his hand away from the glass. "Ray, you must be more careful. We need to run tests on this mirror—"

 

            "I've already run some tests," Ray broke in. "It hasn't affected me and I looked into it and touched it. So it's not a danger to us—at least not here." He frowned at it, then his eyes widened. "Wow. Look at this, Egon."

 

            Spengler moved to join him in front of the mirror. "What—" He broke off as he saw what Ray was pointing to. Even though the room they were standing in was devoid of any furniture, when they looked in the mirror, the reflection showed a furnished room. There was a sagging sofa by the wall behind them, a floor lamp beside the sofa, a rocking chair by the window, and they could both see toys scattered on the floor. Even the walls were different—covered with a yellowing wallpaper instead of the freshly painted walls that surrounded them.

 

            "Do you think this was what Peter was seeing?" Egon asked in a low voice.

 

            The auburn head nodded. "He sees this place just the way it was when he lived here." Ray raised troubled brown eyes to lock with Egon's. "And he thinks his mom is alive."

 

            "I know." Spengler gave his head a brief shake; hopefully they could undo what was done to Peter before they had to deal with that. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, noting Ray's worried frown. "What do you think?" he asked finally.

 

            Ray didn't answer immediately. He took a step back from the mirror and gazed at it for a long time before finally replying. "I think," he said slowly, "that the tenants who lived here messed with something they didn't understand and—maybe accidentally—placed some sort of spell on this mirror. It may have affected Peter because he was the first one of us to look into it or touch it."

 

            Listening to Ray's tone as well as his words, Egon prompted, "But you don't think that's why, do you?"

 

            "Well, it _is_ possible," Stantz conceded, "but I think it may be more than that. The fact that he thinks he's eight years old, the fact that when we look in the mirror we see things that aren't here now but probably were when Peter lived here—I think that's more than coincidence."

 

            "You think the spell was triggered perhaps by Peter's emotional ties to this house, and that's why he was the one who was affected."

 

            The auburn-haired man nodded. "Makes sense. It threw him back to the age he was when he lived here. And it didn't affect the rest of us."

 

            Egon considered the logic of that, his blond brows coming together in a frown. "Raymond, have you ever heard of a spell like this before?" Ray Stantz was the most knowledgeable man he knew in matters of the occult and spells; if he didn't know how to break the spell...

 

            Distress flooded the youthful face, giving Egon the answer before Ray even opened his mouth. "No," he admitted, "and that's what worries me. It's possible this is no _recorded_ spell. Those tenants might have been messing around and accidentally _invented_ one."

 

            The physicist nodded grimly, that thought having crossed his mind as well. "We've got to find them," he murmured. "We've got to find them and find out what it is they did here."

 

            "It's possible," Ray pointed out in a hollow voice, "that they don't _know_." He turned deeply worried eyes on Spengler. "Egon, if this is some spell they created by accident, there may not _be_ a counterspell."

 

            And most spells didn't simply wear off with time; neither one of them had to say that. Spengler laid a comforting hand on Ray's shoulder. "We simply have to keep hoping that—"

 

            The wail of Ecto-1's siren interrupted him, and the two men shared a reluctant smile. "Peter," Ray said unnecessarily, his eyes wandering over to the door. Suddenly he squared his shoulders, his mouth tightening. "I'll find a way to get you back, Peter," he whispered determinedly. "I won't stop until I do. That's a promise."

 

            Spengler tightened his fingers on the stiff shoulder. " _We'll_ find a way," he corrected gently. "This burden does not fall on your shoulders alone, Raymond."

 

            The occultist shot him a quick look, then bobbed his head. "I know, but—"

 

            "No but's," Egon interrupted firmly. "We are in this together and together we will get Peter back." Forcing confidence into his tone, he added softly, "I promise."

 

            Ray nodded again, this time slowly. Again the siren wailed outside, bringing shaky grins to both men's faces. "We'd better," Stantz said with strained humor. "I'm not sure we can keep up with an eight-year-old Peter Venkman."

 

            Egon's smile softened, remembering the image he had seen in that mirror of a small-for-his-age, scrappy youngster ready to take on the three adult strangers he thought had invaded his home. That picture, he knew, would linger in his mind for a long time. He shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present. "The mirror is definitely tied to the spell, and we're going to need it to undo what was done to Peter." Reaching out, he lightly touched the tarnished brass filigree. "The question is, is it tied to this house also? Do you think it's safe to remove it?"

 

            "I don't see where we have any choice. We can't leave it here and take the chance of something happening to it. It's very possible that if we lose the mirror, we lose _any_ chance of getting Peter back."

 

            "Then we take it," Egon stated flatly, and together the two men carefully lifted the heavy mirror from the wall.

  

            Ecto-1's siren blared the whole way back to the firehouse. In the back seat with Egon, Ray watched with fond amusement as Peter bounced around excitedly in the front seat beside Winston. He had questions about everything in the refurbished ambulance and had to be restrained from pressing every button within reach. Winston answered all his questions with good humor and patience, reminding Ray once again how good Zeddemore was with kids.

 

            _Kids_. Ray sank back in the seat, biting his lip. It was so easy to look at Peter and think that everything was fine, that the psychologist was going to come up with some outrageous quip to get them all laughing or start complaining about it being his turn to take out the trash again. It was only when Peter spoke and his tenor voice took on an almost childlike quality or when he asked questions about Ecto or ghosts that the adult Peter Venkman would have known, that Ray remembered things weren't fine. And that fact was driven home with painful force when Peter looked at him. It wasn't just the indifference Ray saw in those green eyes that hurt—although that was hard enough to take. What hurt worse was what he _didn't_ see. That particular warmth Peter had always reserved for his special circle of friends was gone from his eyes now, and seeing that trust and sense of kinship replaced by wariness and suspicion made Ray feel like a stranger.

 

            "Raymond? Are you all right?"

 

            Egon's question, asked in an undertone, brought Stantz out of his thoughts, and he looked over at the older man, realizing suddenly how quiet Spengler had been during the ride. _Egon's feeling it, too._ He raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "It's just hard," he said, careful to keep his voice low, "seeing Peter like this..."

 

            Spengler nodded in perfect understanding. "I know."

 

            "Is this it?"

 

            Peter's high tenor sounded from the front seat as Winston made the turn into the fire station.

 

            "This is it," Winston said.

 

            Peter was practically pressed against the windshield to try to take it all in at once. "Wow."

 

            Winston brought Ecto to a halt and Venkman quickly scrambled out. It was only then that Ray remembered Janine and realized no one had thought to forewarn her about Peter. It was the end of the month and she was sitting at her desk working on invoices. She looked up as Ecto pulled in, silently counted noses as she always did when they returned from a bust, then, satisfied that everyone was present and in one piece, returned her attention to the computer. So she paid no heed when Peter trotted up in front of her desk and gawked at her.

 

            "Hi."

 

            The redheaded secretary looked up, pushed her glasses back into place with one slender finger, and gave Peter a look of pure suspicion. "Hi," she answered warily, obviously expecting some sort of trick.

 

            "I'm Peter. Who're you?"

 

            Janine Melnitz' eyes narrowed dangerously. "If this is some sort of knock-knock joke, I don't have time, Doctor V—"

 

            Ray quickly jumped out of the car and hurried over to the pair, laying an arm around Venkman's shoulders. "Peter, this is Miss Janine," he interrupted quickly, his expression pleading with her to play along. "Janine, this is Peter Venkman. We're going to be looking after Peter while his parents are away."

 

            The secretary threw Ray a stern look. "Not you, too, Ray," she accused. "I don't have time for—"

 

            "Janine." Egon's deep bass got Janine's attention, as it usually did. Still irritated, she looked over to where he and Winston had pulled the cloth-covered mirror out of the back of Ecto. Together, he and Winston moved up beside Peter, then removed the cloth so the glass reflected Peter's image from the side.

 

            As Ray watched, Janine's jaw dropped, her eyes flicking back and forth from Peter to the mirror and then back again. "Oh my gosh!"

 

            "Peter's going to be staying with us for a few days," Ray continued carefully. "Peter, say hi to Miss Janine."

 

            Peter grinned. "Hi, Miss Janine." Then, in a loud whisper to Ray, "She's pretty!"

 

            Suspicion flared in Janine's eyes and she gave them all a sharp look as if still suspecting some prank, but as her gaze rested once again on the image in the mirror, her features softened. When she finally looked back at Peter, her face was composed and there was no trace of asperity in her tone. "Hello, Peter. We're glad to have you here." Moving only her eyes, she pinned Ray with a look, but in that same calm voice said, "I suppose there's an explanation for this? And a solution?"

 

            Ray managed a shaky smile. "We hope so." Then, forcing cheerfulness into his voice, he continued, "Janine, why don't you take Peter to the kitchen and get him something to eat? I'll bet you're hungry, aren't you?"

 

            Peter brightened at the suggestion.  "Yeah!" He immediately trotted over to Janine, his hands stuck into his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting expectantly.

 

            Janine looked a little nonplused, but another glance at the mirror—and one at Egon—helped her recover her composure almost immediately. "Come on, Peter. We'll see what we can find for you in the kitchen."

 

            As the two of them ascended the stairs, they could hear Peter's high-pitched voice as he proudly told Janine, "I can cook, y'know. My mom taught me. She says I'm a real good cook."

 

            "I'll just bet you are."

 

            They listened in silence until the voices faded, then Egon cleared his throat. "We'd better get this mirror up to the lab. I want to run some tests on it as soon as possible. And on Peter," he added as he and Winston headed for the stairs.

 

            "On Peter?" Ray followed them up the stairs. "What kind of tests do you want to run on Peter?"

 

            "I'd like to run some standard intelligence tests for one thing. I want to make sure what has happened to him hasn't affected his intellect. I saw no indication that it did," he added hastily, when Winston threw him a worried look, "but I think it best to make sure." They reached the third floor lab and he and Zeddemore carefully deposited the mirror on the lab table where it was quickly covered again by Ray. "And then I want to take some psi readings and—"

 

            "Egon," Winston interrupted, giving the physicist a meaningful look, "just remember we're dealing with a little boy here. A _scared_ eight year old boy. Oh, he's putting on some act, all right, but he's just a scared little kid who misses his folks and thinks he's been dumped with three strangers."

 

            Egon and Ray stared at him. "Did he say that?" Egon asked finally.

 

            Zeddemore shook his head. "Not in so many words—in fact, not in _any_ words. But he and I had some time to talk while we were waiting for you two back at that house." He looked away for a moment, then back at the physicist. "Just go easy with him, Egon."

 

            Spengler looked affronted. "Winston, I would never do anything to hurt Peter."

 

            "Of course you wouldn't," Ray broke in quickly. "Winston didn't mean that. But sometimes you get...kind of caught up in what you're doing and..."

 

            When Ray didn't finish the thought, Egon did, his tone very quiet, "And, I might forget I'm not really dealing with the Peter Venkman we all know; I'm dealing with a little boy who thinks I'm a stranger."

 

            "He thinks we're _all_ strangers," Ray corrected, his voice dropping. "I think... I think that's the hardest part in all this. When he looks at us... it's like we never knew each other."

 

            "That's exactly how it is," Egon pointed out gently, laying a warm hand on the occultist's shoulder. "As far as he's concerned, he's eight years old and has never met us before. He's never been to Columbia, he's not a psychologist, and he's never heard of the Ghostbusters."

 

            There was a long moment of silence, broken finally when Winston crossed his arms and gave them both a grim look. "So," he said flatly, "what do we do about it?"

 

            That geared the two scientists into action. "Raymond is going to research that spell and try to find a counterspell," Egon said briskly. "I'm going to assist in that endeavor and run various tests on the mirror—and Peter."

 

            "What do I do?" Winston asked. A half-smile touched his lips. "And if you say 'babysit'..."

 

            That drew reluctant smiles from the other two. "Well, someone has to do it," Egon quipped, keeping his eye on Ray for a reaction.

 

            It was the kind of humor Peter would have used and approved of in the situation and it was a good attempt, but Ray's smile, not very strong to begin with, faltered and faded altogether.

 

            "We need to find the tenants who lived in that house," Egon continued quickly, giving Ray's shoulder a squeeze. "It won't be easy. According to Mr. Pierce, they left in the middle of the night still owing rent, so he obviously has no idea where they might have gone."

 

            "I'll get on it," Winston promised. He looked at the two scientists, nodding approval. "It sounds like we have a plan. I'll get over to our client's house and see if I can't get a lead on our amateur witches. He might have seen or heard something that could give us a clue where they went."

 

            "And I'll begin taking readings on this mirror," Egon said, already turning away to gather up the necessary equipment from his workbench.

 

            "And I'll start my research." Ray was halfway to the door when he hesitated and looked back. "Guys...what about Peter?"

 

            Egon turned to face him, pushing up his glasses with one finger. "What about Peter, Ray?"

 

            "Well, we can't just let him run around loose," Stantz pointed out. "I mean, we can't let him go anywhere on his own. He's too well known. If the tabloids ever got wind of this—"

 

            Egon grimaced. "No, we can't allow that. We'll have to limit him to the firehouse. At least it's the middle of the summer so we won't have to try to explain to him why he doesn't have to go to school."

 

            "We can't just let him wander around here on his own, though," Zeddemore commented, shaking his head. "You should have seen him in Ecto before you two came out. That boy was over everything; he would've _driven_ the damn car if I'd've let him." He paused, adding meaningfully, "Can you imagine the kind of trouble an eight-year-old Peter could get into around here?"

 

            "The proton packs."

 

            "The traps."

 

            "The containment unit."

 

            "The atomic destabilizer."

 

            "My molds and fungi."

 

            The three looked at each other as the ramifications sank in. "I'm afraid he's going to need supervision," Egon sighed.

 

            "You mean he needs a babysitter," Winston grinned. "So, who we gonna call for _that_ little job?"

 

            The answer came to all three at the same time, and as one, Ray and Winston turned to face Egon. Spengler drew himself up to his full height and pushed his glasses up on his nose with a defiant, nervous jab. "I'm _not_ asking her," he stated flatly.

 

            "Come on, Egon," Ray wheedled, "she likes _you_."

 

            "Yeah," Winston chimed in, "she'll do it if you ask her. Besides, it's only during the day, and all she has to do is keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't get into anything he shouldn't. He'll probably spend most of his time watching TV, right, Ray?"

 

            "Sure. I could give him my tapes of Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark and—Hey!" Ray's face lit up at a new thought, "I bet he's never seen them! I mean, I know he did, but he doesn't _remember_ them! I've got a whole bunch of tapes he can watch! And could read my  Captain Steel collection, and—"

 

            "All right, all right." Egon held up a hand to stop the enthusiastic flow of words. "I get the picture. Peter can amuse himself, and all we need is someone around to make sure he doesn't create any potentially dangerous mischief while we're each occupied in our research." He sighed the deeply felt sigh of the martyr. "Okay, I'll ask her."

  

            "Forget it, Egon. I'm not a babysitter." Janine's arms were crossed and her mouth was set in a determined line as she squared off against Egon in the TV room. Winston had set off to talk to their client and Ray was giving Peter a tour of Ghostbuster Central, leaving Egon to deal with Janine.

 

            "But it's not really babysitting, Janine," Egon explained in his most reasonable tone. "We just need someone to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't get into any...ah, mischief."

 

            The redhead leaned toward him, eyes narrowed. "Do you have any idea how much 'mischief' an eight-year-old can get into? Do you have any _concept_ of how much mischief an eight-year-old _Peter Venkman_ could get into?"

 

            "Yes," he answered honestly, "and that's what concerns us. Janine, if he got into some of our equipment here, he could injure himself. Ray plans to keep him occupied with television," he continued quickly, "and I need to run some tests on him. But for those times when we're each occupied in our research, we need to know someone is keeping an eye on him."

 

            "Babysitting isn't in my job description, Egon," she objected, but her tone wasn't quite as adamant as before. Spengler wisely kept silent as she mulled it over in her mind. "Are you going to be able to change him back?" she asked suddenly. "He's not going to stay like this forever, is he?" When he looked at her with elevated eyebrows, her cheeks tinged pink. "I mean, when I look at him, I see _Peter_ , and it's hard to remember he's really just a defenseless little kid inside." She grinned. "Not that it's not an improvement over his _real_ personality, you understand. It's just..." She shrugged, not quite able to carry off the intended show of nonchalance. "I'd miss the big jerk."

 

            Egon smiled. "So would I. We're going to do everything we can to get him back, Janine. But in the meantime..."

 

            "All right, all right. I guess I can keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't blow himself up or something."

 

            Spengler's smile warmed. "That's all we ask. We'll—" Whatever Egon was going to say was lost when a yell erupted from upstairs. "What on earth?"

 

            There was another high-pitched yell, unmistakably Peter's. "Get that thing off'a me!"

 

            Physicist and secretary looked at each another. "Slimer," they both groaned and quickly headed for the stairs.

 

            Egon skidded to a halt in the doorway to the bedroom, staring in dismay at the scene of total pandemonium that was unfolding in front of him. Peter was standing on his bed, bouncing around unsteadily as he swung a baseball bat in fierce determination, on his cheek a smear of green ectoplasm. Slimer was streaking around the room, shrieking incoherently as Peter kept taking swipes at him with the bat. Ray was standing in the middle of it all, trying to calm them both, and failing miserably.

 

            "Get him away from me!"

 

            "Peter, no! Slimer's our friend!"

 

            "Raaaaay! Heeee-lpp!"

 

            "Slimer, get away from him! Peter, stop that!"

 

            "He tried to _eat_ me!"

 

            "No, he didn't. He was trying to—Slimer! Get over here!"

 

            "Heeee-lpp Sliiimer!"

 

            Egon had heard enough. This had obviously gotten out of hand. In a stern voice which boomed above the bedlam, he ordered, "Cease this immediately!"

 

            The effect on the participants in said chaos was instantaneous. Everyone froze, Peter in a perfect batting stance, Slimer in mid-shriek, even Ray, who blinked at Egon in surprise.

 

            Spengler felt a sharp jab in his ribs. "You're scaring him," Janine hissed, nodding at Peter.

 

            It was Egon's turn to blink in surprise. His eyes flicked to Peter's face and he noted with dismay the apprehension in the green eyes that were riveted to his face. It occurred to him, for the first time in his life, just how 'adult' he must appear to a child. "I, um, wasn't thinking," he apologized in an undertone.

 

            "Well, you'd better _start_ thinking," she informed him tartly.

 

            He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Of course." His composure regained for the moment, he stepped into the room. "Now, Peter," he began, then froze when he saw Venkman's fingers tighten around the bat. _He's frightened of me_ , he realized, shock flashing through his system like an electric current. _Peter's **afraid** of me_.

 

            "Egon." Ray's soft voice caught his attention and, still stunned, he looked over at the occultist. "Better let me," Ray said apologetically. His eyes traveling back to Peter, Egon could only nod.

 

            The auburn-haired man approached the bed and held out his hand. "Give me the bat, Peter. You're scaring Slimer."

 

            Venkman shot an indignant look at the little ghost. "He scared _me_ first."

 

            "He didn't mean to," Ray explained patiently. "That's just his way of letting you know he loves you."

 

            Reluctantly, Peter lowered the bat, then wiped the smear on his cheek with the back of his hand. "Yeech," he muttered.

 

            "That's how it feels most of the time," Ray agreed, smiling. "Now, come on, give me the bat and come down and you and Slimer and can make up."

 

            Peter obediently handed over the bat to Ray, but made no attempt to get off the bed. "Why don't you put him in one of those trap-things like you did that purple ghost?"

 

            "Because Slimer's our friend, and he lives here with us."

 

            Venkman looked around at the four beds, obviously mulling this over in his mind. "Where's he sleep?" he asked warily.

 

            Egon saw Ray bite his lip to keep from smiling. It was a well-known fact around the firehouse that Slimer, for some reason, preferred Peter's pillow to anyone else's. "Usually up there," Stantz replied, pointing into the air.

 

            Apparently satisfied for the moment, Peter hopped down from the bed, but kept a sharp eye on Slimer, who was hovering anxiously by Ray's shoulder, his yellow eyes wide with confusion. The little ghost was used to Peter threatening to blast him—he seemed to know the psychologist didn't mean it most of the time and it had become something of a game between them—but Peter going after him with a baseball bat had upset him badly.

 

            "All right now." Ray pulled Slimer out from behind his shoulder. "Slimer, Peter, I want you to shake hands and make up."

 

            Slimer looked at Ray, got an encouraging nod in return, then dutifully stuck out one green hand.

 

            Peter looked at the ectoplasmic hand and wrinkled his nose. "Do I haf'ta?"

 

            "Slimer wants to be your friend," Ray told him solemnly. "The question is, do you want to be his? It takes two to make a friendship, Peter, and you have to learn to meet that friend at least halfway and give him a chance." He paused, then added with a smile, "Being a friend isn't always easy, but it's almost always worth the effort."

 

            The brown-haired man chewed his lower lip, apparently mulling this over. Finally, he stuck out his hand, grimacing when Slimer grabbed it and pumped it enthusiastically. "Yuck." When the green ghost finally released it, Venkman wiped his slimed hand on his pants with distaste.

 

            "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Ray asked cheerfully. Peter threw him a sour look, which Ray, not surprisingly, ignored. "See now, you've made a new friend."

 

            Venkman eyed Slimer dubiously, but shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

 

            Very carefully, Egon sidled closer to Ray. "Ray," he said in an undertone, "I need to start those tests."

 

            "Hmm? Oh, right." The occultist turned to Peter again, a friendly smile on his face, and Egon saw Venkman relax a fraction.

 

            _Ray's really good with him_ , Egon realized. He felt a twinge of regret, not for Ray's obvious rapport with the young Peter, but for his own lack of 'connection' with the younger version of his friend. Egon would be the first to admit that he hadn't had much experience in dealing with children, and he knew he wasn't exactly adept at relating to them at their level. But he hadn't expected to feel so completely at a loss when it came to dealing with Peter Venkman—even an eight-year-old version. For the first time in the friendship he had shared with Peter and Ray for most of his adult life, Egon felt isolated, like an outsider who didn't belong, like an observer instead of a participant. It left an empty, hollow feeling in his chest.

 

            "What kind of tests?" The sound of Peter's voice, heavy with suspicion, jarred him out of his thoughts. "I thought you guys were firemen."

 

            "We're scientists, too," Ray replied in a reasonable tone.

 

            Peter made a face. "I don't like science."

 

            Ray shot Egon an amused look. "Yes, I know," he said dryly. "But we're not just scientists; we're teachers, too."

 

            "Teachers?" Peter's face fell. "I'm staying with _teachers_?"

 

            "It's not that bad," Ray grinned. "And the tests won't be that bad, either."

 

            "Are they gonna hurt?" Peter demanded, shooting a leery look at Egon.

 

            The physicist stiffened. "Of course not," he said immediately. What was it about him that made everyone think his tests were going to _hurt_?

 

            "Of course they're not going to hurt," Ray reassured him hastily. "They're tests to measure how smart you are."

 

            Venkman's face closed and his eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly as if he were trying to decide what Ray's game was. It was a look Egon hadn't seen him turn on one of them since they had first met at Columbia. He saw the dismay that flashed across Ray's face and knew that Stantz had recognized it, too. "Why do you want to know how smart I am?"

 

            That question—or more probably, Egon guessed, that look—stopped Ray for an instant. That was when Egon stepped in. " _We_ don't have to know, but your new school does."

 

            "New school? We're moving?" Peter's eyes brightened and there was a trace of hope in his high tenor. "You mean we won't have to live in that crummy house any more? And does that mean dad's coming home?"

 

            Even though he managed to put a smile on his face, Ray's fingers were curled into balls by his sides. Egon knew how much Ray hated lying to Peter, but he also knew, as did Ray, that they had to do whatever it took to get Peter to cooperate while they were working to undo what had been done to him. If that meant lying, then unfortunately, they would have to lie.

 

            "You're going to be able to move real soon, Peter," Stantz said. "And your dad..." The look of hope on Peter's face nearly broke Egon's heart, so he could only imagine what it was doing to Ray. "You know he'll be back just as soon as he can, don't you?" the occultist finished gently.

 

            Disappointment flickered in Peter's eyes, but he nodded, his shoulders rising and falling in what was supposed to pass for an indifferent shrug. "Yeah. Sure."

 

            Ray glanced at Egon, and the physicist saw the ready sympathy in his eyes, but when he looked back at Peter, Stantz had managed to suppress it. "Anyhow, we have to do some tests for your new school." Before Peter could ask more questions, he continued quickly, "Your mom and dad really want this, Peter, and it won't take long, right, Egon?"

 

            The blond man nodded. "Not at all. And it will be quite painless," he added.

 

            Peter's eyes rested on Spengler for a moment, then shifted to Ray. "Are you coming, too?"

 

            "No, I'm afraid I can't," Ray answered, dropping a hand on Venkman's shoulder. "I have some very important research to do."

 

            The brown-haired man cocked his head. "What kind of research?"

 

            Stantz looked at him for a long time, then tightened his fingers on Peter's shoulder. "Research to help a friend," he said quietly.

 

            "Is your friend in some kind of trouble?"

 

            Something indefinable flickered across the occultist's face. "Yes," he said softly, "he's in trouble. But I'm going to help him."

 

            A brief smile touched Peter's face at this, then faded as he looked over at Egon. "Now?" he asked unenthusiastically.

 

            Egon nodded. "Yes, I'd like to do it now, Peter."

 

            Venkman sighed the sigh of a very put-upon eight-year-old and ungraciously walked over to Egon, careful to keep a safe distance between them. Spengler sighed himself, but said only, "We'll run the tests in the room across the hall, Peter," and led the way out.

 

            As he opened the door to the lab he heard Janine whisper to Peter, "I'll stop by in a little while and make sure he's not working you _too_ hard."

  

            Egon carefully reviewed each of the tests he had given Peter, pleased and relieved to find that Venkman's intelligence and aptitude registered within the range to be expected from an-eight-year-old. He glanced up from his evaluation of the results of the most recent test, watching as Peter wandered around the lab, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.

 

            They had had a rocky beginning with these tests. After evaluating Peter's answers to the first aptitude test, Egon was sure Venkman was deliberately sabotaging the results. One look at the feigned innocence in those shrewd eyes confirmed it. He had said only one thing to Peter then, but that had been enough. "You want your parents to be proud of you, don't you?" was all it took to spark the indignant determination that had spurred Venkman on from that point. With his tongue clamped between his teeth at one side of his mouth, Peter had hunched over the papers, his brows gathered in concentration as he pored over the questions. Spengler smiled in satisfaction as he put the tests aside. Perhaps he had learned something from Peter Venkman, Psychologist, after all.

 

            Then his smile slowly faded as he watched Peter finger some of the tools on the lab table while he lightly kicked the table leg with one sneakered foot. It was so easy to look at Peter and think that everything was normal...as normal as it had been at the breakfast table that morning. But things weren't normal, and unless he and Ray could come up with some answers, things might never be normal again.

 

            Taking off his glasses, Egon rubbed his eyes, wincing at the dull ache that had settled in there. He was trying very, very hard not to let the thought enter his mind, but the memory of his cousin, Michael Spengler, kept pushing to the forefront of his consciousness despite his best efforts. Two years younger than Egon, Michael was a tall, robust man with Spengler blond coloring, a quick and ready smile and a booming laugh...and he had the mental and emotional faculties of a six year old. Michael Spengler was retarded. Egon had last seen his cousin when he had briefly gone to work for his Uncle Cyrus at Spengler Laboratories. It had been painful to see the child that was Michael trapped inside an adult body, to see the childish emotions and reactions emanating from a grown man. Would it be that way with Peter, he wondered, his fingers tightening around his glasses. What if they couldn't find the counterspell? Would the child-Peter be trapped in his adult body for the rest of his life? Would he begin to mature naturally? Or would he be like Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up?

 

            "Damn," Egon whispered and slowly replaced his glasses on his nose. They had to find a way to break the spell. They simply had to.

 

            "Hey, what's this?"

 

            The question brought Spengler's head up just in time to see Peter lift the cover off the old mirror on the table and reach out to touch it.

 

            "Peter, no!" The physicist shot to his feet and Venkman jumped back away from the mirror, putting his hands quickly behind his back and turning wide, alarmed eyes on Spengler.

 

            "I didn't do anything!" he protested quickly, backpedaling quickly when Egon approached.

 

            Egon forced himself to stop and held out his hands in a placating manner. "All right, Peter."

 

            "It's just an old mirror!"

 

            "You have to learn," Egon said seriously, "that not everything is what it seems. There are many things around here that look harmless but could hurt you if you don't know how to handle them properly."

 

            The brown-haired man shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away, muttering, "Geez, what a grouch," under his breath. "There's nothin' to do around here," he complained in a louder voice.

 

            "There are many things to do around here," Egon countered.

 

            Venkman turned back, chin lifted defiantly. "Name one," he challenged flatly.

 

            Egon opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it, staring at Peter's triumphant face. It was true there were many things to occupy any of the Ghostbusters at Central, but there was admittedly little a child could do. He was saved from conceding that very fact by the arrival of Janine.

 

            "Lunch is on. Peter, are you hungry?"

 

            Venkman streaked past Egon, sparing the physicist only a quick, sideways look. "Yeah! What're we havin'?"

 

            "How does hot dogs sound to you?"

 

            "I like hot dogs."

 

            "I kind of thought you might."

 

            The two disappeared down the stairs and Egon listened as their voices faded, then sighed and made his own way to the basement.

  

            Egon stood in the doorway to the basement lab and silently read the disappointment on Ray's face as the occultist spoke into the phone. Books surrounded him on the table, some stacked into piles, some laying spread open and face down. Ray's head rested in one hand, the fingers of that hand threaded through his untidy hair, while the other hand gripped the receiver of the phone with grim intensity. Stantz glanced up at Egon, briefly shook his head, then turned his attention back to the conversation.

 

            "Okay, Dave, thanks. You'll call if you hear anything?" Ray listened for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks." The conversation at an end, he slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle without looking at Egon. "I've got bad news," he announced finally, "and bad news. Which do you want first?"

 

            Funny, Egon mused, how they were all trying to strive for that tension-breaking humor Peter had always used with such effectiveness. But none of them seemed to have his flair for it. "Let's have the bad news first," he replied, walking over to drop down into a chair on the opposite side of the table.

 

            The auburn-haired man fingered the ornate, but tattered, cover of the book in front of him. "Winston called with the names of those three amateur witches we're looking for." He nodded toward a scrap of paper on the table. "Tracy and Donald Hoffman and someone named Inez Windsong."

 

            Egon's eyebrows raised. "That sounds like good news."

 

            Stantz raized his eyes to give him a bleak look. "I've been calling my Wicca friends all over town. No one's ever heard of them. Looks like they were independents. I'm afraid we're not going to be able to track them through any coven or organized withcraft practitioners."

 

            Spengler felt his hope fade. "Oh." New York City was an awfully large haystack in which to try and find three needles.

 

            "And no one I've talked to has ever heard of a spell like the one on that mirror, either. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean they concocted the spell themselves; it might only mean it's extremely rare."

 

            Egon mulled this over. "While Winston is trying to locate them in the field, perhaps we should act on the assumption they came across that spell in a book and used it unwittingly. Perhaps if we contact occult stores and bookshops specializing in..." He stopped at the grimace on Stantz' face. "What?"

 

            "Now do you want to hear the _bad_ news?" Egon peered at him over his glasses, then nodded. "It turns out they've only been in New York a few weeks. Seems they drove here from Boston."

 

            Ray watched him expectantly as the significance of this news sank in. "Which means," Spengler sighed, "that even if they did purchase a book of spells, they didn't necessarily do their shopping here in New York."

 

            "I put the word out anyway, just in case," Ray said, rubbing his forehead. He looked up. "Where's Peter?"

 

            "With Janine, having hot dogs."

 

            The younger man grinned. "I think he has a crush on her."

 

            "On Janine?" Egon asked, surprised at the thought.

 

            "Sure, why not?"

 

            "But Janine's...more than three times his age!" he finished lamely. "I mean...you know what I mean!"

 

            Ray rolled his eyes. "Egon, didn't you ever have a crush on your third grade teacher?"

 

            "Certainly not," he retorted, somewhat stiffly. "My third grade teacher was an elderly gentleman by the name of Mr. Phillips."

 

            "Oh." Ray digested this for a moment, then grinned. "Well, Janine's not an elderly gentleman and I think Peter's got a crush on her. Hey, how did the tests go?" he asked suddenly.

 

            "They went fine. I'm certain Peter's intellect has not been not impaired in any way by the spell."

 

            Stantz smiled in relief. "Good. I just hope we can—"

 

            "Egon."

 

            Both men looked up at the sound of Janine's voice. The secretary was standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed.

 

            "Didn't you say something about television?" she asked meaningfully. When Egon only looked at her blankly, she continued, "He's almost finished lunch and I have to get back to those invoices."

 

            "Oh, of course." Spengler looked at Ray, who set aside the book in his hands with a little smile.

 

            "I want to see his face when he sees the opening of Star Wars," the occultist murmured and headed for the stairs.

 

            Egon stood just inside the TV room doorway and watched as Ray slid a cassette into the VCR. Peter sat cross-legged on the sofa, a large bowl of popcorn cradled in his lap. "What is that thing?" Venkman asked curiously, pointing at the VCR.

 

            "It's a VCR," Ray answered automatically, then turned, fixing Peter with a thoughtful look. "It's a video cassette recorder," he explained carefully. "Have you ever seen the big reels of film at the movies?"

 

            Venkman nodded.

 

            Ray ejected the cassette and held it up for the psychologist to see. "Well, there's a way to put all that film into this little cassette and play it on this machine right here on the TV."

 

            Pure skepticism flooded Peter's face. "No way," he said flatly. "You can't get a whole movie on that little thing!"

 

            Spengler stood as if mesmerized as he listened to this exchange. Despite Peter's adult appearance, it was so easy to see the wary, guarded child he had been.

 

            Ray slid the tape back into the machine, grinning. "You just wait. When you see Star Wars—"

 

            "Star Wars?" There was a trace of disdain in Venkman's voice. "Sounds like some kind of outer space movie. I like westerns."

 

            Ray pushed the play button on the VCR, then turned back to Peter with a smile. "It is an 'outer space' movie," he agreed, "but it's also a lot like a western. You see, just like every good western, the good guys wear white and the bad guys wear black and..."

 

            Minutes later, to Ray's obvious delight, Peter was entirely captivated by the explosion of sights and sounds of George Lucas' _Star Wars_.

  

            Winston returned to the firehouse that evening to a subdued pair of scientists. Egon and Ray had spent most of the day in their fields of research and, as Egon reluctantly admitted, they were no closer now to breaking the spell than they had been that morning.

 

            Dinner was a quiet affair. Peter gulped down his pizza, hardly bothering to chew, so he could rush back to his Star Wars saga, and Egon and Ray waited until he was back in the TV room before they jumped Winston about his findings.

 

            Zeddemore wiped his hands on a paper towel. "Well, our client wasn't much help. He couldn't remember anything about his tenants that gave me any leads, and the references they gave him turned out to be bogus."

 

            Ray's face fell. "So you didn't find out _anything_?"

 

            "No, I found _something_ ," Winston corrected, digging a small card out of his pocket. "I got Mr. Pierce to give me the key and went back to Brooklyn to go through that house again. The only room that had any furniture at all was the bedroom, and all that had was a couple of lumpy mattresses, a scratched-up old table and some empty cardboard boxes." He looked at the hopeful faces across the table. "And that's where I found this." He held out the crumpled business card that he had discovered under one of the mattresses. There was no business name on it, only the name _Geoffrey Neeson_ and an address downtown. "I went there," he continued as Egon took the card, "but this Neeson wasn't around. It's just an old hole-in-the-wall shop with a bunch of books in the window and—"

 

            "Geoffrey Neeson?" The name fairly exploded from Egon's lips.

 

            "What?" Ray snatched the card from Egon's hand, eyes widening at the name.

 

            Winston let his gaze travel from one to the other. "You know this guy?" Winston asked, stating the obvious.

 

            "We've met," Egon answered, looking at Ray.

 

            "I didn't know Neeson was still in New York," Stantz said, still staring at the card. "He just sort of disappeared a couple of years ago and everyone thought he was gone for good."

 

            "Okay, so who _is_ this guy?" Zeddemore asked impatiently, tired of being in the dark. Both Egon and Ray looked concerned and that was enough to make the back of his neck itch.

 

            "Depends who you ask," Ray murmured, fingering the card.

 

            "I'm asking _you_ , homeboy," Winston said sternly.

 

            Stantz looked up and threw Zeddemore an apologetic look. "Sorry, Winston. What I meant was, some people consider him a warlock. Some people say he's one of the world's foremost experts in the occult. Some believe he's a Satanist—"

 

            "And some people merely call him what he really is," Egon broke in flatly, "which is a mercenary."

 

            Zeddemore's eyebrows raised. "He's a mercenary?"

 

            "Not that kind," Spengler corrected, taking the card back from Ray and frowning at it. "He _is_ gifted and he is incredibly knowledgeable about the occult and spells—especially ancient, rare spells. But he doesn't use his talents to further man's knowledge about the unknown."

 

            Winston tossed his paper towel down in disgust. "Let me guess. Say someone wanted to put some sort of curse on an ex-boyfriend or somebody they didn't like at work..."

 

            "Geoffrey Neeson is the one they'd go to," Egon finished, dropping the card in disdain.

 

            "No reputable practitioners of witchcraft will go near him," Ray added. "I'd heard he'd left New York and went back to England."

 

            "Well, apparently he came back," Winston pointed out and tapped the discarded business card with his index finger. "You think this Neeson character might be the place to start?"

 

            "He's definitely the place to start," Spengler retorted, "but we won't get any cooperation out of him. He knows both Ray and myself from some unpleasantness over the authenticity of a supposedly rare edition of a Tobin's Spirit Guide a few years ago. There's no way he's going to give us any information if he knows we're involved."

 

            Zeddemore shrugged. "He doesn't know me. I'll go there and—"

 

            Blond head and auburn shook in unison. "It won't work," Stantz said positively. "You don't just walk up to Geoffrey Neeson and demand information like that. He'd never talk to you."

 

            "He might if he was looking down the business end of a proton rifle," Winston muttered darkly.

 

            Ray flashed a quick grin. "Nice thought, but it still won't work." Then his smile faded as his expression turned thoughtful. "We need a way in to his shop; we need someone to get in there undercover, to try to get the information in a way that looks legitimate."

 

            "So I go in without the proton pack."

 

            Egon shook his head again. "He would sense a set-up in a minute."

 

            "He's right," Ray chimed in. "Remember, Neeson _does_ possess certain abilities. He'd know right away you weren't a believer."

 

            Across the table, Egon gazed at him, lifting one blond brow. "I'm afraid, Winston," he said solemnly, "you simply don't have the right aura."

 

            "Aura," Winston repeated, and thought for a moment. Then, a wide grin slowly split his features. "You want aura? M'man, I can get you all the aura you could ask for."

 

            Ray's face lit with sudden hope. "You have a plan?"

 

            "I have a plan," Zeddemore acknowledged and slid his chair back to get to his feet. "Let me make a phone call, and if I get the answer I think I'm gonna get, I'll fill you in."

  

            A few minutes later, Winston climbed the stairs to the second floor, a satisfied smile on his lips. He had gotten the answer he had hoped for and all that was left was to fill in the guys and finalize a few details. As he reached the top of the stairs he heard Egon's deep voice in the TV room and automatically turned in that direction.

 

            The physicist was standing by the TV, Peter was sitting-cross-legged on the sofa, and there was a full-blown argument in process. Zeddemore glanced at the TV and saw Peter had apparently made his way through the Star Wars trilogy and was now working on Raiders of the Lost Ark. Given the time of night and the fact that Peter was in effect only eight years old, it didn't take a genius to figure out what the argument was about.

 

            "But it's not a school night!"

 

            "No, but you do need your sleep, Peter. Now turn off the television and get ready for bed."

 

            "But I want to finish this first."

 

            Egon's voice took on a tone of strained patience. "It will be after midnight if you finish this movie tonight. That is quite unacceptable for someone your age. Now turn off the—"

 

            "You can't tell me what to do," Peter challenged, his chin lifting defiantly. "You're not my father."

 

            The blond man drew himself up straight. "No," he replied levelly, fixing Venkman with a stern look, "but I am in charge."

 

            That brought Peter to his feet, green eyes blazing. "You're not the boss of me!"

 

            Before that could go any further, Winston strode into the room and calmly switched off the TV. "Enough for tonight, homeboy," he said firmly. "It'll still be here tomorrow. Go on, Ray's waiting for you."

 

            Peter hesitated, his gaze measuring Winston head to toe. Then he shrugged and turned away, throwing Egon a dark look as he passed.

 

            His face expressionless, Egon waited until Peter had disappeared upstairs before he silently left the room and vanished into the kitchen. Winston gave him a few moments, then followed.

 

            Spengler had put the tea kettle on the stove and was in the process of preparing himself a cup of herbal tea. The bottle of aspirin, Winston noted, was already sitting on the counter. The black man sighed. "Egon—"

 

            "Peter and I just can't relate, Winston," Spengler said without looking around. "I don't even know how to communicate with him. You can talk to him, Ray can talk to him—Ray can _play_ with him—but I can't say two words to him without making him mad or defensive or..." His voice trailed off in frustration.

 

            "Hey, cut yourself some slack, m'man," Winston said kindly. "I'm used to being around kids. You know how many nieces and nephews I have. And Ray's just a big kid himself."

 

            Spengler flipped off the cap of the aspirin bottle and coaxed two tablets into his palm. "But I was always able to relate to _Peter_ ," he insisted.

 

            Winston laid a hand on the physicist's shoulder and turned him around so they were facing. "But this Peter is twenty-five years away from being the Peter you knew this morning," he reminded Egon gently. "This Peter you _don't_ know."

 

            The blond man opened his mouth to refute that, then closed it with a little nod. "I know," he said finally. "But it's very hard to remember that."

 

            Winston shot him a grin. "Yeah, tell me about it." He gave the taller man's shoulder a little squeeze, then let his hand drop away. "From what Ray tells me, it wasn't exactly love at first sight when you and Pete met at Columbia."

 

            That coaxed a tilted smile out of Spengler. "No," he said ruefully, "it wasn't. It took a lot of time and a lot of work—from both of us—to get to know one another. To _really_ know one another," he added.

 

            Zeddemore nodded in understanding. "Maybe that's all it's going to take this time, Egon. Just time and a little work—from both of you."

 

            The blond man's smile faded as he turned away to lift the whistling tea kettle from the burner. "I sincerely hope we don't need that much time, Winston. I'm concerned about the psychological effects this spell might have on Peter in the long run." He finished pouring his cup of hot water, then turned back to Zeddemore. "Did you make your phone call?"

 

            Winston winked. "Yep. And when Ray gets done tucking our little boy into bed, I'll tell you two all about it."

  

            Egon woke the same way he fell asleep: instantly. For a moment he lay there in bed, blinking fuzzily at the empty bed beside his. The very wrongness of Peter Venkman's bed being unoccupied at this hour of the morning only drove home the memory of yesterday's events. With a sigh, he slipped on his glasses and climbed out of bed, noting that while Winston still snored softly, Ray's bed was also empty and had been carefully made. It only took him a few minutes to dress and head downstairs.

 

            The sound of the TV brought him to the living room where he paused in the doorway, smiling at the scene inside. Peter was on the sofa, bowl of cereal cradled in his lap, the spoon forgotten in its journey between the bowl and his mouth as he stared at the TV screen, entranced by the adventures of Indiana Jones. Above his shoulder, similarly intrigued by the action, floated Slimer. Apparently the two had made up their differences. With a little shake of his head, Spengler turned away and continued downstairs.

 

            He found Ray, just as he expected, in the downstairs lab deep in research. So engrossed was he in his work that the occultist never heard him the first time Egon called his name.

 

            "Ray," Spengler repeated, louder this time.

 

            The auburn head shot up and brown eyes blinked blearily.

 

            Egon frowned as he walked over to the table. "Did you get _any_ sleep last night?"

 

            The younger man shrugged and quickly ducked his head. "Some. A little. No," he admitted finally.

 

            Egon dropped down into a chair and leaned across the table toward Stantz. "Ray—"

 

            "I keep thinking about Peter, about how happy he was." Ray looked up, misery flooding his eyes. "He _loved_ his life, Egon," he said softly. "He had a wonderful education, a job he loved; he was smart, funny, famous, a hero—everything he ever wanted to be. And he may have lost all that. We may have lost _him_."

 

            Reaching across the table, Egon laid a hand on Ray's arm, giving it a supporting squeeze. "We haven't lost him yet," he reminded Stantz.

 

            The occultist managed a pale imitation of his usual sunny smile. "I know. I'm not giving up."

 

            Spengler looked at the pile of books scattered over the table. "I know you're not. Neither am I." An amused smile touched his lips. "He seems very taken with Indiana Jones."

 

            That brought a real smile to Ray's lips. "I knew he'd like those movies. He and Slimer made up, too."

 

            "Yes," Egon said wryly, climbing to his feet, "he's even made friends with Slimer. Come on, Raymond. It's time to take a break."

 

            The younger man got to his feet and quickly caught up with Egon. "It's not that he doesn't like you, Egon," he insisted. "He does, really."

 

            "Oh?" Spengler shot him a sideways look. "I had no idea Peter was such a good actor."

 

            "You know what I mean." Ray shrugged apologetically as they headed up the stairs. "I think he's a little scared of you, that's all. I mean," he hurried on, "to an eight year old, you can be a little imposing. Sometimes even to people older than that," he added in an undertone.

 

            Egon heard this last remark as he reached the first floor and turned to the younger man. "What did you—" But the sound of someone thudding hurriedly down the stairs interrupted him.

 

            "Ray! Ray, I finished this one. Can I have the next tape now?" Peter reached the bottom step, breathlessly waving a videotape, then stopped short when he saw Egon, his eager smile slowly fading. He looked every bit like a little boy expecting to be chastised for something.

 

            Beside him, Egon heard Ray clear his throat in what was unmistakably some sort of signal. Peter's eyes flicked to the occultist and Spengler saw a flash of reluctant understanding in their green depths. With a stifled sigh, Venkman turned to the physicist. "Hello, Mr. Egon," he said politely.

 

            _Mister Egon_. Ray had obviously taken some time out of his research to have a talk with Peter and Peter was obviously trying to live up to his end of whatever bargain they had reached. "Good morning, Peter," he said with a smile, trying his best not to look or sound imposing. "Did you sleep well last night?"

 

            The brown-haired man nodded. "Uh huh. Except you snore."

 

            Egon blinked in surprise. "I do?"

 

            Venkman nodded again, this time vigorously. "Yeah. _Loud_."

 

            There was a muffled snicker by his side and Egon shot a mild look of annoyance at Stantz. The occultist merely shrugged, still grinning. "Well, you _do_ snore, Egon."

 

            "Hmm."

 

            "Can I have the next tape now?" Peter asked again, waving his tape in a bid for attention.

 

            "Yes, you _may_ ," Ray corrected. "Come on back upstairs and I'll get it for you."

 

            Egon followed the other two upstairs as Peter chattered excitedly about the incredible adventures of Indiana Jones. As they reached the second floor, the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon wafted into the hallway and Peter slowed to a stop, his gaze turning longingly toward the kitchen.

 

            "Still hungry?" Ray guessed. At Venkman's ready nod, he said, "Why don't you go on in and give Winston a hand. I'll go get the tape and it'll be ready for you when you're finished breakfast."

 

            That brought a quick smile to Peter's face and he obligingly trotted into the kitchen.

 

            When he was alone with Ray, Egon murmured, "'Mister Egon?'"

 

            Ray's eyes followed Peter into the kitchen and he watched as Peter began setting the table. "I didn't think he'd feel comfortable calling you Egon, and I didn't think you'd want him calling you Doctor Spengler. I thought that might be a good compromise." He paused, then turned to face Spengler, adding apologetically, "And I thought it might help if he started calling you _something_." Before Egon could respond to that, the younger man laid a hand on his arm. "I know this is hard for you, Egon."

 

            Spengler's lips twisted into a rueful smile. Sometimes he forgot just how astute Ray could be. "It's just a little disconcerting," he admitted. "I'm not used to Peter being so... uncomfortable around me."

 

            "I know." Ray squeezed Egon's arm, then let his hand drop away. "Hopefully it won't be for much longer. You know," he continued, his tone turning thoughtful, "I always wondered what Peter was like as a little boy." He looked into the kitchen, watching as Peter surreptitiously snagged a piece of bacon off a plate as he finished setting the table. Brown eyes twinkled as Ray turned back to Egon. "Hasn't changed all that much, has he?"

 

            Chuckling, both men joined their colleagues in the kitchen.

  

            Peter popped another piece of crisp bacon into his mouth and chewed it contentedly, savoring the flavor. Winston's scrambled eggs were almost as good as his mom's and the bacon was out of this world. It had been a long time since he'd had bacon for breakfast. As he took another drink of cold milk, he let his eyes travel around the breakfast table, taking in the three men who sat around it.

 

            Winston was involved in a good-natured argument with Ray over the merits of a baseball team called the Jaguars. Peter had never heard of them, but Winston was obviously quite a fan. He liked Winston. The black man was easy-going and friendly and never minded answering his questions.

 

            He picked up a piece of toast and spread it generously with strawberry jam as his gaze shifted to Ray Stantz. He liked Ray a lot. Ray wasn't like a real grown-up at all. He liked fun movies, he read comic books; heck, he even had a stuffed doll on his bed. Peter wrinkled his nose at that. No stuffed dolls for _him_ , but if Ray wanted one, that was okay with him, and he'd personally deck any kid who made fun of him for it. He wished Stantz wasn't so busy doing all that reading to help that friend of his. If Ray only had the time, he bet they could go on all kinds of adventures together. But then, most grown-ups didn't have time for him. His dad didn't. But his dad was away a lot; his work was real important. His mom tried to spend time with him, but she worked hard and was too tired at night to do much except sit in the rocker and fall asleep while she was mending his clothes. Peter stifled a sigh as he bit into the crunchy piece of toast. He missed his mom and wondered uneasily why she hadn't called to check on him. He remembered last summer when she had to go away and left him with Grandma, she called him every single night before he went to bed.

 

            Pushing that troubling thought aside, he took another larger bite of his toast, then felt something cold and slimy poking his leg. Glancing down, he saw that green ghost, Slimer, under the table, looking piteously at him with those big, yellow eyes. Peter grinned to himself. The others had already chased Slimer away from the table with orders to wait until they were done eating before he appropriated left-overs. After making sure no one was watching, he stealthily lowered the half-eaten piece of toast under the table, smothering a giggle when the ghost quickly gobbled it down, leaving his hand covered with sticky slime.

 

            "You're only encouraging bad habits, Peter."

 

            He looked up quickly at the sound of the deep, solemn voice and found Egon Spengler looking at him over the rim of his glasses. He slumped a little in the chair, his head dropping. "Sorry," he muttered. Why couldn't he ever do anything _right_ around this man? Why did it seem like he always had to be on his best behavior? Why did he feel like he was all-thumbs and always saying or doing the wrong thing around him? And why, he thought with a flare of irritation, did he _care_?

 

            "It's all right." Venkman's head shot up and he was surprised to see that a smile had softened the sharp planes of Spengler's face. "We've all been guilty of it ourselves. He's a little hard to ignore, isn't he?"

 

            Peter nodded slowly, his eyes on the scientist. Mr. Egon reminded him of his homeroom teacher, Mr. MacPartland. Old man MacPartland was the tallest man Peter had ever seen and he peered down at his students from his great height over gold-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. But Mr. Egon wasn't _exactly_ like MacPartland, he admitted grudgingly. Ray seemed to like him a lot, so he must be okay. And Spengler hadn't really been mean to him or anything...just kind of bossy. But, then, most grown-ups were, so he guessed that didn't make Mr. Egon any worse than any other adult. While he was still musing over that thought, the sound of the doorbell downstairs brought Winston to his feet.

 

            "That's for me," the black man announced casually and left the kitchen.

 

            Peter quickly finished what was on his plate, suddenly remembering Ray's movies. He couldn't wait to find out what dangers and adventures Indiana Jones faced next. But before he could ask to be excused, Winston re-appeared in the doorway with a colorfully-dressed, elderly black woman by his side. He sat up a little straighter, his curiosity piqued by the sight of this peculiar woman. She must have been as old as his Grandma—maybe older—but the plaits of hair that peeked out from under a multicolored head scarf were jet black with no hint of white. And were those really _bones_ in her hair? An excited shudder ran through his body as he wondered if they were _human_ bones. A shaw covered her upper body and a long skirt nearly touched her ankles. Forgetting everything his mother ever told him about not staring, Peter gaped at her, letting his eyes travel from those tiny bones in her hair down to the crooked, wooden walking stick she had gripped in one hand. He wondered if she was a Gypsy, or some sort of fortune teller—or maybe even a witch.

 

            "Dahlia, you remember Egon Spengler and Ray Stantz?"

 

            "Of course. It is good to see you both again." The woman spoke with a strange lilting accent that Peter couldn't identify.

 

            "And this is Peter Venkman. He's staying with us for a few days. Peter, this is Madam Dahlia."

 

            Peter froze as the woman turned her large, dark eyes on him. For a moment he felt pinned by her gaze, then relaxed as a gentle smile softened her craggy face. "Hello, Peter." She held out her hand, and without consciously thinking about what he was doing, he automatically got to his feet and walked toward her. When they were barely a foot apart she took his hand in hers, her deep, dark eyes locking with his. In that instant when their hands touched, he felt something like an electric shock tingle through his body. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was unexpected, and he gave a little gasp of surprise.

 

            "You are not afraid of me, are you, Peter?"

 

            To his astonishment, Peter discovered he wasn't. "No, ma'am," he said promptly.

 

            She nodded approvingly. "That is good."

 

            "Are you a Gypsy?" he asked suddenly.

 

            That made her chuckle.

 

            "Madam Dahlia is a voodoo priestess," Ray explained.

 

            Peter's eyes went wide. "Voodoo? Wow!"

 

            "We have some business to discuss right now," Stantz continued, laying a hand on his arm. "Why don't you go watch TV for a while. I'm sure Madam Dahlia will be happy to spend some time later with you, won't you, Dahlia?"

 

            He looked eagerly at the priestess, who nodded agreeably. "Of course. I have many stories I could tell you if you like."

 

            "Yeah!" he agreed instantly. A real voodoo priestess! Wait till the other kids heard about this! "See you later." He turned to leave the kitchen, then hesitated in the doorway, looking back. "You won't forget?"

 

            A smile touched the black woman's face again. "I will not forget."

 

            Accepting her promise, he left, hurrying back to his movies.

  

            There was silence in the kitchen after Venkman left, broken finally by Dahlia. "I see," she said softly. "He is a child, yet he is not. He is an adult, yet he is not. He is here...yet he is not. It is still him, still his essence, yet he is a wandering soul."

 

            "Then you'll help us?" Ray asked, not able to mask the anxiety in his tone.

 

            The priestess turned solemn eyes on the younger man. "Of course I will help. What has been done to him must be undone. I will do what I can."

 

            "All right then," Winston declared briskly, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get to it and do it."

  

            Winston helped Dahlia out of the passenger side of Janine's Volkswagen, then turned to face the unmarked shop in front of them. Dahlia had insisted she could come here alone, but he still wasn't sure what they were up against, so there was no way he was going to allow that.

 

            Egon and Ray would have come, too, careful to keep well out of Neeson's sight of course, but right before they left they had gotten a frantic call from the owner of a boarding house. It seemed that a class two floating apparition had suddenly materialized and was terrorizing her lodgers. Given the woman's near-hysteria, Egon and Ray had decided to respond to that cry for help while Winston and Dahlia came here. Zeddemore smiled slightly as he recalled the way Peter had pitched a fit when he had not been allowed to go on the bust. Peter had pleaded so hard that Ray was about ready to capitulate, but Egon had held firm. Winston could understand his reasoning—after all, Peter was for all intents and purposes an eight-year-old child, and none of them wanted to risk his life just because he was pouting—but it hadn't done anything to soften Peter's opinion of 'Mister Egon.' Giving his head a shake, Winston guided the voodoo priestess into Geoffrey Neeson's shop.

 

            Inside, they paused to let their eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. Then Dahlia made a little gesture with her hand and he nodded, taking up a place by the door while she walked farther into the shop. The shop was lined with shelves and they were all filled with books, stoneware jars, glass containers of herbs, and things Winston couldn't begin to identify. An old wooden counter jutted out from one wall and on the other side of the room sat a beautiful, antique oak desk. The man behind the desk looked up when they came in, and from his position by the door, Winston took the time to study him.

 

            Geoffrey Neeson was a slim, boyishly handsome man with stylishly combed light brown hair and very expensive taste in clothes. Although Zeddemore knew from Egon that Neeson was in his sixties, the man looked twenty years younger. He had the type of slim physique that would never grow pudgy and a youthful face that would never reveal his true age. He didn't look like a mercenary. But then, Winston had discovered early on that you couldn't judge a book by its cover. Just look at those three scientists he had hooked up with. Who would have thought from the looks of them that those college professors did battle with the unknown on a regular basis?

 

            "May I help you?" Neeson's voice was genteel and softly accented, and he stood as he greeted Dahlia.

 

            Dahlia walked up to the desk and stopped. "Mr. Neeson?"

 

            Like someone out of a Dickens novel, Neeson made a polite little bow. "I am Geoffrey Neeson, at your service, Madam."

 

            Zeddemore hid his grin. Egon and Ray had been right about this guy. Neeson would have smelled a set-up in a second if he had walked in here by himself and began asking questions; he wouldn't have gotten any cooperation at all. But _he_ had been right about Dahlia; the woman had more 'aura' than anyone he had ever known. Neeson would recognize her as a believer in a second.

 

            "I am Dahlia," the black woman announced, as if that were the only introduction she needed. Apparently it was.

 

            Neeson dipped his head graciously. "How may I help you, Dahlia?"

 

            Winston listened as the voodoo priestess recited the story they had agreed to use. How three novices—the brother and sister act of Hoffman and Hoffman, and their friend, Inez Windsong—had come to her to study her craft. How in the course of those visits they had mentioned Neeson's name. And how they had suddenly stopped coming and she began having strong feelings they were somehow in danger.

 

            Zeddemore watched Neeson's face as Dahlia related all this. The man betrayed no emotion, although a touch of grim humor seemed to spark in his grey eyes when she mentioned danger. When she finished, Neeson walked out front behind the desk and pulled a chair over for her. "Please sit down, Madam," he invited, "and we'll talk." The black woman did so, waiting patiently as Neeson took his own seat behind the desk. "I do, indeed, know the three novices you speak of. They have been here to my shop." He shook his head. "But I have no idea where they are now."

 

            Winston felt his heart sink, but Dahlia gazed at him calmly. "You feel the danger also, Mr. Neeson." It was a statement of fact, not a question, but Neeson seemed unsurprised by her certainty.

 

            "Yes. They are in danger." His lips compressed into a thin, grim line. "We are _all_ in danger as long as those imbeciles are running loose." Dahlia made no comment, merely waited for him to continue. Unexpectedly, a humorless smile touched Neeson's lips. "You and I understand about knowledge, Madam. In our respective crafts we understand that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. In the case of those three, a little knowledge can be fatal. They think it's all a game, something for their amusement. They have no idea the powers they are trifling with."

 

            The voodoo priestess looked at Neeson for a long time, her dark eyes resting on his face. When the silence stretched to the point where Winston didn't think he could stand it any longer, Dahlia asked quietly, "What is it they possess, Mr. Neeson, that can bring them such danger?"

 

            An appreciative smile slowly spread the occultist's lips and he gave a barely discernable nod of approval. "Let me tell you a story, Madam," he said in his soft, accented voice, "about a wizard and his book of spells. Unlike most stories about wizards, this one is no legend; this one is quite real. His name was Michael Scot and he rests in a tomb in Melrose Abbey in Scotland. So renowned was this wizard that he was immortalized by his own descendant, Sir Walter Scott, in one of his ballads." Neeson rested his elbows on his desk and leaned toward Dahlia. "His 'enchanted volume' was thought to be lost or destroyed—or somehow taken by Scot himself to whatever Afterlife he went to—which was just as well for this world. Then in 1893, a man named Isaiah Parsec surfaced in London, proclaiming to have found the wizard's book of spells. He shut himself up in a house there and devoted himself to translating it from Latin to English. He worked on it for nearly two years, and in that time allowed no one to see it. He had a printing press installed in the house and rumor was that when the translation was complete he printed a copy. Just one copy."

 

            Neeson paused in his narrative and sat back in his chair. "Then the time came for the unveiling. He invited the greatest scholars of Britain and Europe to witness his triumph. But the night before the showing—in the _middle_ of the night—his house burned to the ground and neither Parsec nor the wizard's book—if that's really what it was—were ever seen again."

 

            "And do you think," Dahlia asked, "that is what it was?"

 

            A crafty look entered Neeson's slate-grey eyes. "All I know," he replied, "is that three young people came into my shop a week ago bearing a tattered book they said they purchased at a swap meet in Boston. They wanted it appraised; they thought it might be worth something." Neeson paused briefly. "I would have needed to do a more complete study of it to be sure, and there were several pages missing in the front, but the watermark on the paper alone told me the paper was manufactured prior to 1900. And the spells I did read were all unfamiliar to me." He stopped again, this time frowning slightly as if turning his thoughts inward. "I cannot be certain it was really Parsec's reproduction of Scot's book of spells, but I am _positively_ certain that it contains powerful magic."

 

            "Powerful," Dahlia interjected quietly, "for those who know how to unlock its secrets."

 

            Neeson smiled, obviously pleased with her remark. "Yes, Madam, powerful for those who understand its secrets. But to those who don't...it will bring only danger, perhaps death—to themselves and to others."

 

            "If this magic was so powerful, why did you let them leave with the book?" the voodoo priestess asked. There was no judgment in her tone, but her gaze was steady as it rested on his face.

 

            Neeson smiled slightly, but it was a tight smile with no humor behind it. "It was their book," he said shortly. "They refused to sell." Then he got to his feet in one smooth movement. The interview was over. They had gotten all they were going to get out of Mr. Neeson, and only that much because Neeson saw no threat in Dahlia. "And that is all I can tell you, Madam. If you hear from them, please ask them to get in contact with me."

 

            Dahlia got to her own feet, albeit more slowly. "Of course. Let us both hope we hear from them before it is too late. Thank you, Mr. Neeson." With that, she turned, rejoined Winston, and together they left the shop. Winston could feel Neeson's eyes on him even after the door closed behind them.

 

            Once they were back inside Janine's car, and safely away from Neeson's prying eyes, Winston turned to Dahlia. "Well? What do you think?"

 

            The woman looked back at the shop, her face thoughtful. "He hungers for that book," she said softly. "He hungers for the power it would bring him."

 

            Zeddemore nodded agreement. That was the impression he had gotten, too, and he hadn't needed any special powers for that. "He probably overplayed his hand with those kids and they sensed it. They knew they had something valuable and decided to hang onto it. And odds are, he's got someone—or a lot of someones—out looking for them." He started the car and prepared to pull out into traffic. "Well, we've got to find them before he does," he said grimly. "Because I have an idea if he gets that book first, we can't expect to get a whole lot of help from him, and we might never get Pete back."

 

            Janine walked over to greet them when they pulled her car into the fire hall. Her lips were pressed together in a way that told Winston instantly that something was wrong. "What is it, Janine?" he asked quickly.

 

            "That bust Egon and Ray went on," she said. "It was a little more complicated than they thought.

 

            "What happened?" he demanded. "Is everybody okay?"

 

            "Egon's okay, but Ray's upstairs with a nasty headache and bruises all over. The doctor said he'd be fine," Janine added hastily, seeing Zeddemore sprint for the stairs. "He's just supposed to take it easy for the rest of the day. He's in good hands," she added with a grin. "Peter's with him."

 

            Winston paused on the steps, turning with a slow smile. "He is, huh?"

 

            The secretary nodded. "He's waiting on Ray hand and foot."

 

            Relaxing now that he knew Ray's injuries weren't serious, Winston murmured, "Some things don't change, do they? Egon up there, too?"

 

            "No, he went back to that place in Brooklyn."

 

            "Peter's old place? Why?"

 

            The redhead looked decidedly ticked. "I don't know," she sniffed. "He doesn't confide in me. I'm sure Ray knows, though." She turned to Dahlia, who had been waiting silently nearby. "Come on, Dahlia, let's you and me take a coffee break."

 

            Winston left the two women to make their way to the kitchen while he bounded up the stairs to find his friends. A quick check in the TV room revealed the VCR playing a tape of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade to an empty house so he continued up the stairs to the bedroom.

 

            There he found Ray lying on his bed, a carefully folded cloth over his eyes, and Peter hovering anxiously by his side. Zeddemore skidded to a halt when Venkman whirled around, his finger to his lips. "Shhhsh!" he warned in a piercing whisper. "Ray's asleep!"

 

            Despite himself, Winston had to smile at the picture. "Sorry," he whispered.

 

            "It's okay, Winston. I'm awake." Ray pulled off the cloth over his eyes and offered a tilted smile. "I'm all right."

 

            "You should've let _me_ go along," Venkman insisted. "I could've trapped that ghost."

 

            With a little grunt, Ray pulled himself upright and Peter quickly lent a hand. "I'm okay, Peter, really," Stantz insisted, producing a reassuring smile for the psychologist.

 

            "What happened, Ray?" Winston asked.

 

            The occultist shot a sideways look at Peter. "We ran into something we didn't expect," he said evasively.

 

            "No kidding," Zeddemore muttered, but he knew Ray didn't want to go into details in front of Peter, so he didn't push the matter. "Peter, Dahlia's with Janine in the kitchen. Why don't you go on down and join them."

 

            The brown-haired man looked at Ray, clearly unwilling to leave his side. Stantz smiled. "Go ahead, Peter. Dahlia promised to tell you all about voodoo, remember? I'm just going to rest for a while."

 

            Peter hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Okay. But if you need anything—"

 

            "—I'll call you," Ray finished, clapping him on the shoulder.

 

            Venkman positively beamed at that and after another good look to assure himself that Ray really was okay, he finally turned and left the room.

 

            Once he was gone, Stantz settled back against his headboard with a sigh. "You sure you're okay?" Winston asked, moving over to the bed.

 

            The occultist looked up at him. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just a headache and some bruises."

 

            Zeddemore grinned. "Quite the little mother hen, isn't he?" Sitting down on his bed, he regarded the younger man, his grin fading. "So what was it you couldn't tell me in front of Peter? I thought you guys were up against a class two?"

 

            "We were," Ray answered slowly. "But we were also up against something else."

 

            "Like...?" Winston prompted when Stantz didn't continue.

 

            "I don't know," the occultist answered simply. "Whatever it was, it threw us out of the house."

 

            Zeddemore sat forward sharply. "Say _what_?"

 

            "It literally threw us out of the house," Ray repeated. He rubbed his forehead, frowning, but Winston didn't know if it was from pain or concentration. "We got there and Egon got readings on the class two right away. It took us maybe five minutes to bust it. But he also got _other_ readings." Raising his eyes, he looked at Winston. "They were the same readings he was getting at Peter's house in Brooklyn."

 

            "I remember him talking about that, but he said they were probably just..." He searched his memory.

 

            "Psi residue," Ray furnished. "That's what we thought. But he picked up the very same readings at this place in Queens."

 

            Something snapped inside Winston's brain. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me—"

 

            The auburn head nodded. "They were there, Winston," Ray said quietly. "The Hoffmans and Inez Windsong had rented a room at this boarding house."

 

            "That's great! That means—" He broke off when Stantz shook his head. "Don't tell me they pulled another disappearing act."

 

            "Last night, apparently right after they summoned up that class two."

 

            "Shit."

 

            "But that's only part of the problem."

 

            "I'm afraid to ask what the other part is," Winston muttered.

 

            "The _readings_ , Winston. They were the same readings, but this time they were stronger."

 

            Zeddemore shifted uneasily. "Are you telling me," he said very slowly, "that whatever it was that Egon got wind of in Brooklyn is now in Queens, and this whatever-it-is was strong enough to throw you two out on your cans?"

 

            "I'm afraid so."

 

            "This isn't good, is it?"

 

            "No."

 

            "And it's not just a coincidence, is it?"

 

            Ray gazed at him with somber eyes. "I think," he said quietly, "that this entity is tracking those three. That's why it ended up at that boarding house where they were staying."

 

            "Tracking them," Winston repeated, and let out a low whistle.

 

            "Egon went back to Brooklyn. He wanted to check something out."

 

            Janine had told him that downstairs, but that was before he knew they were dealing with a ghost with a bad attitude. Winston got to his feet. "I think I'd better give him some back-up."

 

            "That won't be necessary." Winston turned at the sound of the calm, bass voice in the doorway. Egon Spengler, his jaw set in a grim line, strode into the bedroom. "How are you feeling, Raymond?"

 

            Stantz waved the question aside. "Just a headache. What did you find out, Egon?"

 

            "My theory was correct," he said tightly. "I went through the entire house taking readings—something I should have done yesterday," he added with a flash of self-directed disgust. "Perhaps if I had this could have been avoided."

 

            "Yesterday, we all had other things on our minds," Winston reminded him pointedly, remembering how they had all suddenly had to deal with an eight-year-old Peter Venkman. "What did you find out?"

 

            Egon looked at Ray. "Just as I feared, there is evidence of a dimensional portal at the house. The plasmatic energy readings went off the scale."

 

            "A dimensional portal?" Winston repeated, sitting back down with a thud. "Are you telling me something came through there?"

 

            The blond physicist nodded. "Something big. Something powerful."

 

            "Something pissed," Zeddemore added, glancing at Ray's bruised face. "So was the portal there all along and those kids somehow opened it up?"

 

            "Perhaps," Egon replied. "Perhaps not. That's not important. What is important is that whatever came through has left that house and seems to be stalking them."

 

            "But why?" Ray mused. "Is it angry because someone summoned it?"

 

            "Maybe," Winston theorized thoughtfully, "it's not them it wants. Maybe it's something they have." The other two looked at him. "Dahlia came through for us," he said and told them about Geoffrey Neeson and the wizard's book. When he finished, Egon walked over and sat down on his bed, blond brows gathered together in a frown of concentration.

 

            "I knew about Isaiah Parsec, of course," Spengler murmured. "Every serious student of the occult does. But no one thought the book still existed. Is it possible...?" He raised alarmed blue eyes. "If that is truly what they have..." His gaze shot to Ray. "We must find them," he said urgently. "We have no time to lose."

 

            The auburn-haired man nodded immediate agreement. "If they can open up dimensional doorways and bring through entities that powerful..." He let the rest of the though go unsaid.

 

            "I don't think we're the only ones looking for them," Zeddemore warned. "Neeson seemed pretty anxious to get his hands on that book."

 

            "No doubt," Spengler muttered darkly. "But we have to find it first."

 

            "I agree," Winston said, then looked expectantly at Egon. "Any suggestions how we go about it?"

 

            Egon looked surprised at the question. "Of course."

 

            The black man hid his grin. Of course.

 

            "I've recalibrated a P.K.E. meter with the entity's readings. I propose that you and I begin a systematic search of the city, beginning with Queens. Wherever the book is, I believe the entity will eventually surface. With any luck it will lead us to that book and we can contain it before it does any more damage."

 

            "Or before it gets to that book," Ray added.

 

            "It's a big city, guys," Winston reminded them.

 

            "Yeah, but it's a start," Ray said, pushing himself to his feet, "and we've got to start somewhere. I'm sure the counterspell to bring Peter back is in that book. It's got to be," he added under his breath. "Besides, if that entity is really looking for that book, that might mean there's a spell in there that can make it even more powerful—maybe even invincible."

 

            "The doctor said you were to rest, Raymond," Egon reminded him with a frown. "Winston and I can handle the search."

 

            "Two teams searching can cover twice as much ground," Stantz argued. "We can borrow Janine's car, and I can go with Winston and Peter can go with you."

 

            "Peter?"

 

            "You can't drive and watch the meter at the same time. Peter can hold the meter and check for readings. He really wants to help us."

 

            "Given his...condition, I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Ray," Spengler said slowly.

 

            " _I'm_ sure," Ray said positively. "Come on, Egon," he said softly, laying a hand on the older man's shoulder. "This'll give you two a chance to get to know one another—and it'll give Peter a chance to...to be part of the team again."

 

            The physicist sighed and threw Winston a helpless look. When presented in those terms, Egon couldn't very well argue.

  

            Peter Venkman was fairly bouncing off the seat of Ecto in his excitement. He was going on a _ghost hunt_! And Mister Egon himself had asked him to help. He slid a sideways look at the tall, blond man behind the wheel of the car. Peter had been a little disappointed at first that Ray hadn't been the one to ask him to go along, but this was okay. Maybe Mister Egon really wasn't so bad; after all, the man had asked for _his_ help. Puffed up with pride, Peter sat up a little straighter in the seat and returned his attention to the strange looking meter in his hands. A P.K.E. meter, Ray called it. Mister Egon told him it measured some kind of ghost energy and they were going to use it to track down a bad ghost. Peter thought it would be a good idea to run the siren to clear the traffic for them, but Mister Egon said it would scare the ghost and they wanted to sneak up on him.

 

            Peter settled back into the deep seat, his eyes glued to the meter. They had been driving for _hours_ and the thing hadn't so much as made a peep. "Maybe we're looking in the wrong place," he volunteered.

 

            Spengler took his eyes off the traffic long enough to favor him with a solemn look. "We have to start somewhere, and this is the area the entity was last sighted." Then, unexpectedly, a smile softened his tight features. "I'm afraid sometimes ghost hunting can be a little boring."

 

            "Yeah, but I'll bet it's exciting most of the time—and dangerous!" Peter countered. "I'll bet you have adventures just like Indiana Jones!"

 

            The physicist's lips twitched. "Yes, many times it is exciting and dangerous," he admitted. Then he cleared his throat. "I knew Professor Jones, you know," he said casually.

 

            Peter sat forward, his eyes widening. " _You_ know Indiana Jones?" Then his eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility. "No way," he declared, sinking back against the seat. No way would this _scientist_ know the great Indiana Jones.

 

            But the blond man merely nodded. "I've met him quite a few times. I attended several of his lectures some years ago and had the opportunity to speak with him with regards to one of his greatest finds—the Ark of the Covenant."

 

            "Wow." The word escaped Peter's lips in reverence. "You know Indiana Jones. What was he like?" For the next hour as they wound through the streets of Queens Peter was regaled with Mister Egon's tales of the great Indiana Jones.

 

            Spengler was in the middle of a story about one of Jones' quests in Egypt when the meter in Peter's hand suddenly came to life.

 

            "Hey, it's beeping!"

 

            The physicist quickly reached, out turning the meter so he could see the readings. Then he shook his head. "It's not the right frequency." He craned his neck to get a look at the building to their right. It was an old, seemingly abandoned warehouse of some sort. "We'll probably get a call there someday, but it's not the entity we're looking for."

 

            Peter scarcely heard him. All he heard was the shrill whining of the meter in his hands. "There's a ghost in there!" He aimed it out the open window at the warehouse they were passing. "It's right in there! It's in there, Mister Egon!" In his excitement, he jumped up and leaned out the window so only his legs were still inside the car. "Let's go after it!"

 

            "Peter, no! Sit back down! We can't—" Suddenly the car jerked to a halt as Spengler shouted a warning and slammed on the brakes. Out of the corner of his eye Peter saw a bicyclist dart across the street in front of Ecto just as he was thrown off balance and lost his grip on the P.K.E. meter. The little device dropped to the street and bounced neatly into the path of an approaching cab. As Peter watched, horrified, the taxi ran over the meter, leaving bits and pieces of mangled wire and circuitry in its wake. While he was still staring at the destruction, a hand grabbed his shirt from behind and yanked him back inside. He landed on the seat with a thud and turned to see Egon climbing out of the car.

 

            Spengler paused long enough to give him a stern look. "Stay here," he ordered shortly.

 

            Miserable and mortified, Peter watched as the physicist directed impatient motorists around him and carefully gathered up every part he could find of the demolished meter. After he had deposited the remnants in the back of the car, Spengler climbed back in, started the engine and pulled back in traffic. Peter took the silence as long as he could.

 

            "I'm sorry," he said in a small voice.

 

            "We'll have to go back to the firehouse now, and I'll have to recalibrate another meter. It will delay our search and take valuable time we don't have." Spengler's voice was quiet, but it was edged with impatience. "Peter, I don't think you understand the urgency of finding this entity or the importance of what we're doing here."

 

            Venkman slumped back into the seat. "I said I was sorry," he mumbled. Now he'd done it. He had broken Mister Egon's meter and messed up the ghost hunt and now the physicist would never trust him to help again.

 

            Peter heard a sigh as Spengler reached out and patted his shoulder in a somewhat awkward gesture. "I know you're sorry, Peter, but perhaps it might be better if you stay back at the firehouse."

 

            Peter turned his head away, feeling his eyes begin to sting. Mister Egon didn't trust him. He probably didn't even want him around at all now.

 

            It was a long, silent ride back to the fire hall.

  

            Janine looked up from her work as Ecto pulled into the garage area, smiling as Peter clambered out of the passenger side. Doctor V could be a real pain in the neck sometimes, but he really was kind of sweet as a kid. Of course, she hoped Egon and Ray could figure a way to get him back the way he used to be. Jerk or not, Peter was _their_ jerk and she kind of missed him.

 

            Her smile faded as Venkman ran right past her without so much as a word and raced up the stairs. She could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowing, she turned her attention to Egon, who was heading her way, his attention on a jumbled mess of electrical parts in his hands. He would have walked right past her without a word if her sharp voice hadn't stopped him as he prepared to climb the stairs.

 

            "Egon, what's wrong with Peter?"

 

            Spengler looked at her a moment, then up the stairs. "It's a long story," he replied vaguely, "and I don't have time right now, Janine. I've got work to do." The physicist apparently thought that was a sufficient explanation and continued on his way.

 

            Her mouth set in determination, Janine followed, catching up with him in his lab. "What's wrong with Peter, Egon?" she repeated, more firmly this time.

 

            Spengler looked around, startled. "Janine. I didn't hear—"

 

            "What did you do to Peter?" she asked, pointing across the hall at the closed bedroom door.

 

            The blond man pushed his glasses up on his nose with a sigh. "I didn't do anything to him. We had an...accident." He pointed at the remnants of what had once been a P.K.E. meter laying on the lab table. "I simply said it would be better if Peter stayed behind the next time I go out."

 

            "Egon, you didn't!"

 

            "Janine, I had no choice," Egon said wearily. "I simply don't have time to baby sit him right now—none of us do. It was a bad idea to take him along in the first place, no matter how well intended the thought. I should have known better. In his present state, Peter is not a contributing member of this team. I can't count on him to do what I need him to do."

 

            Janine thought she heard a sound across the hall and quickly looked over her shoulder, but the bedroom door was still closed. Turning back to Egon, she folded her arms across her chest. "I don't think you understand—"

 

            "No one understands better than I do how important being a part of this team is to Peter," Egon broke in, a little sharply. "And no one misses him more than I do. But, Janine, he is only _eight years old_ —emotionally, intellectually..." He glanced ruefully at the broken P.K.E. meter. "Even his motor skills. Taking him out in his present state is not only inconvenient, it could be dangerous." His voice softened. "What if we got into a situation out there? What if Peter were called upon to defend himself? He _can't_ defend himself. He could be hurt, even killed, just because we were trying to assuage his hurt feelings. I will not take that kind of chance with his life." Turning abruptly away, he picked up a spare P.K.E. meter and began to adjust the setting meticulously with a tiny screwdriver. "I'm afraid Peter's hurt feelings will have to take a back seat for a while, Janine. There's just too much at stake right now."

 

            Janine walked up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. "I know you're right, Egon," she said softly, "but Peter doesn't understand that."

 

            The blond head nodded. "I know." His brows gathered in concentration as he worked on the delicate circuitry. "Have Ray and Winston checked in?"

 

            The sudden change of subject didn't fool her one bit, but Janine replied, "About an hour ago. Nothing."

 

            "I'm going back out." Replacing the screwdriver in its proper place, the physicist turned away from the table, then hesitated, gazing at the closed bedroom door across the hall. "Look in on him, will you?"

 

            Janine sighed. As if he had to ask. "Of course I will. Don't forget to call in."

 

            Nodding, Egon slipped the modified P.K.E. meter into his pocket and strode from the room. Left alone in the lab, Janine considered the closed bedroom door for a moment, then left the lab and went back downstairs. Peter needed some time to himself. In a while she'd fix him a snack and bring it up. Hopefully by then he'd want some company.

  

            It was dark when Egon returned to the fire hall. He'd had no luck tracking the mysterious entity and discovered during his last check-in with Janine that Ray and Winston hadn't had any luck either. When he pulled into the parking area, he found the three of them waiting for him. His eyes traveled from one to the other, noting uneasily the worried looks on their faces. His eyes lingered longest on Janine, seeing displeasure as well as concern in her expression. It was a look he and the other Ghostbusters knew well. As Peter would say, someone was in deep shit.

 

            "Peter's gone," Janine announced curtly.

 

            "Gone? What do you mean gone?"

 

            "I mean gone, as in not here," the secretary said flatly.

 

            "Peter's run away," Ray explained, his tone every bit as worried as his expression.

 

            "Run away? But—Janine, you were supposed to—"

 

            "I _did_ look in on him," she interrupted sharply. "The first time I took him a snack he was asleep. Then I went down to the basement to do an equipment check and the next time I went to check on him—about an hour ago—he was gone." Hands on her hips, she tapped her foot. "Now why do you suppose he would have run away?"

 

            "That's not important now," Ray broke in hurriedly, throwing a sympathetic look at Egon. Janine had apparently filled them all in on his afternoon with Peter. "We've got to find him. For all we know he's out there wandering the streets alone—"

 

            "Pete grew up in New York," Winston reminded him, lightly clapping the agitated occultist's arm. "He knows how to get around the city."

 

            Stantz rounded on him. "This is _New York_ , Winston. _Anything_ could happen to him on the streets out there in the middle of the night!"

 

            "All right, Raymond," Egon said quickly. "We'll find him. We'll set the P.K.E. meters to match his biorhythm and—"

 

            "I've already done that for ours," Ray told him.

 

            Spengler nodded, sprinting up the stairs. "Give me a minute." He reached the doorway to his lab and had nearly turned in when something made him stop. Puzzled, he looked around the hallway, wondering what it was that had registered to his subconscious. His eyes found the door to the roof and noted that it wasn't latched.

 

            "Egon?" Ray's impatient voice sounded from the stairs. "Are you ready yet?"

 

            "Just a minute, Ray." He walked back to the stairs, meeting the occultist, who was almost to the top. "Did you check the roof?" he asked quietly.

 

            Stantz' face registered surprise. "The roof? No." His eyes widened. "You think that's where he is?"

 

            A slight smile touched Spengler's face. "It _would_ be in character."

 

            Ray started to brush past Egon on the stairs, but the physicist lightly caught his arm. "Let me."

 

            Stantz hesitated, then nodded. "You guys have some fences to mend," he agreed. He started to turn around, then paused and looked back at Spengler. "I know you were only trying to protect Peter this afternoon, Egon," he said gently, "and it was probably a pretty bad idea to take him along in the first place, but Peter doesn't understand any of that. He just thinks you didn't want him around any more."

 

            Egon nodded, his eyes on the door that led to the roof. "I know, Raymond. I just hope I can convince him that wasn't the way it really was."

 

            "So do I," Ray said softly, and silently went back downstairs.

 

            Egon took a deep breath, then grasped the doorknob and opened the door to the roof. He walked up the stairs and paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. It was dark, but the light by the door threw a soft pool of light over the roof and the myriad lights of Manhattan twinkled brightly all around them. In the center of that pool of light, his back to the ledge, his knees pulled up to his chin and head buried in his arms, sat Peter. Venkman must have heard him, but he gave no indication of it as Egon walked across the roof and slowly sat down beside him.

 

            They both sat there in silence for some time. Finally, Egon looked around and remarked casually, "You know, I have a friend who often comes up here when he's upset or just needs to think about things." When Peter made no response, Egon pressed gently, "Is that why you're up here, Peter? Because you're upset, or need to think about something?"

 

            "You don't have to pretend to like me," Peter said, in a tone that was painfully stoic. "I know you don't want me here. And I don't _want_ to be here." All that was missing was the unspoken—but obviously intended— _So there!_

 

            It was no less than he expected, but it was still difficult to hear, knowing very well that it was his actions that had brought all this on. "Why do you think I don't want you here, Peter?"

 

            Peter raised his head and turned to give Egon a hard look. "I heard what you said to Miss Janine," he said flatly.

 

            Spengler's heart sank. He had assumed all this was because he had left Peter behind this afternoon; he had no idea Peter had heard some of his conversation with Janine. How much had he heard? And _what_ had he heard? "What did you hear me say, Peter?" he asked quietly.

 

            Venkman looked away before he answered. "You said you didn't have time to be my baby sitter. You said it was a mistake taking me along." His voice caught. "You said you couldn't count on me."

 

            Having his well-intentioned words flung back at him was painful enough without the added knowledge that Peter had heard them, as well. "Is that all you heard?"

 

            "That was enough." Peter dropped his head back onto his arms. "Lemme alone," he mumbled.

 

            Egon ached to put his arm around his friend's shoulders and explain all this away. More than anything he wanted to take away the pain he had seen in those expressive eyes. They had come so close today to bridging the gap that had sprung up between them when Peter fell under that spell. Peter had been so happy—so proud—to be a part of the team, to be _included_. And he had shattered that. His eyes slid shut momentarily and he considered his next very important words. "Yes, I did say that, Peter."

 

            "I know you did. I heard you."

 

            "But that's not all I said. What you heard, Peter, was taken out of context." He paused. "Do you know what that means, to take something out of context?"

 

            There was a long hesitation, then the brown head shook.

 

            "It means you didn't hear _everything_ I said. You only heard part of it."

 

            Venkman's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "So what? Wouldn't make any difference."

 

            "It can make a very big difference. If you only hear part of a story, you can't know the whole story. If you only hear part of the truth, you're not hearing the whole truth."

 

            "The truth is, you don't want me here."

 

            "No, Peter, that is not the truth," Spengler said firmly. "The truth is, I would miss you very much if you _weren't_ here." This time he did ease his arm around Peter's shoulders. Although the younger man tensed under his touch, Peter did raise his head. " _That_ is the truth," Egon said solemnly, "and I would never lie to you. Please believe that."

 

            Venkman gave him a long look, then stated flatly, "Grown-ups are always saying things they don't mean."

 

            _Like your father?_ Egon wondered grimly. "Not this grown-up," he said quietly.

 

            Something flickered in the back of Peter's eyes and Egon sensed he had given him something to think about. "But you don't want me to help anymore 'cause I messed up today." There was no accusation in Peter's tone now, only an unspoken plea to be proven wrong.

 

            Spengler gave the shoulder under his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Everyone 'messes up' sometimes— even me. Not often, of course," he added dryly, drawing the hint of a reluctant smile from Venkman. "But I do mess up." The physicist shifted slightly so he was looking directly into Peter's face. "I messed up today by taking you along to hunt for that ghost." The younger man quickly averted his head, but Egon gently grasped his chin and turned it back. "I messed up because it was far too dangerous for you to be out there, Peter, and I never should have taken such a chance with your life. It was unforgivably reckless of me. I'm very sorry."

 

            "But nothing happened—'cept I broke your meter."

 

            "Broken meters can be replaced," Egon explained gravely. "Friends cannot. And I would very much like to be your friend...and I would like you to be mine."

 

            The brown-haired man tilted his head to study Egon, a slight frown of puzzlement on his face. "You're too old to be my friend."

 

            "Ray's your friend, isn't he?"

 

            "Yeah," Peter answered slowly, "but he's not like a real grown-up."

 

            Egon grinned wryly. "That does give him a distinct advantage. But I would still like to be your friend—if you'll let me."

 

            Venkman seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded. "I guess we can try," he said finally.

 

            Spengler's smile deepened. "I'd like very much to try. As a mutual friend of ours once observed, being a friend isn't always easy, but it is almost always worth the effort." He looked around at the familiar Manhattan skyline, remembering the other encounters he and Peter had had up here and the discussions they'd had under these same skies. "You remember that friend I was telling you about, the one who comes up here?" Peter nodded. "Well, sometimes when I'd find him up here, we'd talk for a while and then we'd go to the kitchen and I'd make us some hot chocolate."

 

            That caught Peter's interest. "My mom makes the best hot chocolate in the whole world," he boasted. He paused, then asked, "Is yours any good?"

 

            "My friend thinks so." Egon tightened his arm briefly. "Why don't we go find out what you think?"

 

            For the first time that night, Peter's face brightened. "Okay."

 

            "Okay," Spengler agreed, and climbed to his feet. Looking down, he extended a hand to his companion. Peter looked at it for a moment, then accepted it and allowed Egon to pull him to his feet. As they walked across the rooftop, Venkman tilted his head and regarded Egon.

 

            "Mister Egon?"

 

            "Yes, Peter."

 

            "Could you...could you tell me some more stories about Indiana Jones?"

 

            Smiling, Egon dropped an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "You know, I think I have just enough stories left to last us through at least two cups of hot chocolate..."

  

            Egon stood in the doorway to the TV room and allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the scene spread out in front of him. Winston was sitting in his usual chair, engrossed in a recent-best-seller, and on the sofa, sprawled like two tired little boys, were Peter and Ray. With a huge bowl of popcorn between them, they were enjoying an old John Wayne western, cheering on the good guys and hissing at the villains. He smiled, shaking his head in fond amusement. It was late, they were all tired from their futile search for the mysterious entity, and Ray especially should have been in bed, but no one seemed to want to move. It just felt too good to gather here in front of the television and enjoy their time together. Besides, he and Ray had both agreed there would be no bedtime curfew for Peter tonight; more than any of them, Peter needed the support of family around him right now and they were all determined he was going to get it. Tomorrow they would have to continue their search for the ghost and that book of spells, but tomorrow would come soon enough.

 

            Peter and Ray laughed out loud, bringing a grin to Winston's face, but Egon felt his own smile slowly fade. They had to find that counterspell soon. The longer Peter stayed in this condition, the more worried Egon became about possible after-effects. It was only a matter of time before Peter began questioning why his mother hadn't been calling to check on him or when she was coming back, and Egon had no idea what he was going to tell him.

 

            The sound of the phone ringing startled him momentarily and he slipped into the kitchen to take it there. "Ghostbusters," he answered, hoping it wasn't something that couldn't wait. He didn't particularly want to haul the others out tonight as tired as everyone was.

 

            "Egon Spengler?"

 

            The physicist frowned as he tried to place a name to the vaguely familiar voice. "This is Egon Spengler."

 

            "This is Geoffrey Neeson."

 

            "Neeson?" The temperature of Egon's voice dropped a good twenty degrees. "What do you want?"

 

            "You're going to love this, Spengler," Neeson replied, and Egon realized suddenly why he hadn't recognized Neeson's voice earlier: the man sounded scared. He sounded scared to death. "I want to hire you."

 

            "Hire me to do what?"

 

            "Hire you to do what it is you do," Neeson snapped. "To capture a ghost!"

 

            Spengler smiled to himself. _Paybacks are hell, Neeson._ "I thought you had your own methods for—"

 

            "Bloody hell, Spengler, listen to me! This is—is more than I can handle. Do you think I'd be calling you if this wasn't a matter of life or death!"

 

            The physicist pulled a chair out from the table and sank down, his entire demeanor suddenly changed. The occultist didn't just sound scared; he sounded terrified. "What's going on, Neeson?" he demanded.

 

            There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, broken finally by Neeson's not quite steady voice, "I am in...possession of a certain article. A book. No wonder they sold it so cheaply. They knew something was—"

 

            "Book!" Egon exploded. "Isaiah Parsec's book?"

 

            There was a strangled exclamation over the phone. "How did you know—"

 

            "Never mind that," Spengler interrupted sharply. "Do you have it?"

 

            "Yes, I—"

 

            "You are in grave danger, Neeson," he broke in urgently.

 

            "I know that," the man fairly spat. "There's something here—something... _coming_. I can sense it, I can feel it. Spengler, _something is coming after me_."

 

            "It's the book," Egon explained quickly. "We think it wants the book. Where are you?"

 

            "At my shop—"

 

            "Stay there. We're on our way." He slammed down the receiver without waiting for Neeson's reply and tore out of the kitchen. "Ray! Winston!" His bellow brought everyone running, Ray and Peter in front.

 

            "Egon, what—"

 

            "That was Neeson on the phone," Egon said hastily. "Ray, he's got the book. We've got to get over there. There's no time to lose."

 

            Ray nodded immediately, already grasping the implications. "We have to take the mirror." He turned to the black man behind him and motioned urgently. "Winston, help me bring it down."

 

            As the two tore up the stairs to the lab, Egon turned to Peter, who was slowly walking away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.

 

            "Peter." The brown-haired man looked back. "We're going to need you on this bust."

 

            Venkman's whole face lit up. "Really? Wow! Can I use one of the guns? Can I blast the ghost? Can I—"

 

            "Peter." Peter clamped his mouth shut as Egon walked over to him, his face serious. The physicist placed his hands on the younger man's shoulders and dipped his head to meet Venkman's eyes. "We need you to come on this bust with us," he repeated. "But you are to stay with me at all times," he ordered, his voice intense enough to make Peter's eyes widen. "Do you understand? You are to _stay with me_. No matter what happens, do you hear?"

 

            Taken by surprise by the fervency of Egon's commands, Peter could only nod. Spengler gazed at him a moment longer, then slowly relaxed his grip. "It could be quite dangerous tonight, Peter," he continued in a gentler voice. "You may see things that will frighten you, but you'll be safe if you stay with me and do exactly as I say, all right? I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

 

            Peter looked at him, his wide green eyes perfectly guileless. "I know," he said simply.

 

            "You...know," Egon repeated slowly, realizing suddenly what a huge gulf they had bridged over two cups of hot chocolate earlier. _You make the second best cocoa I ever drank_. Peter's grave pronoucement came back to him now and he smiled, patting Venkman on the shoulder. "Remember what I told you. Now let's go."

  

            "Plan, Egon?"

 

            The physicist looked over at Winston, who was behind the wheel of Ecto, navigating the dark streets. In the back, he could hear Peter and Ray engaged in a spirited conversation about Captain Steel. "Yes, actually," he answered. "Of course, it depends on an extraordinary amount of luck where our timing is concerned."

 

            Zeddemore threw him a sour look. "I don't recall having any 'extraordinary amount of luck' where _anything_ is concerned lately."

 

            "Good point."

 

            "So what's the plan?"

 

            "Providing we reach Neeson's shop before the entity arrives, we use the book as bait and lure it back to Peter's house in Brooklyn."

 

            The black man frowned. "Why not just trap it at the shop?"

 

            "I'm afraid by the readings I got in Queens that it may be too powerful for us to trap by this time. Our best hope is to somehow get it back to the dimensional portal, force it back through, and seal the doorway."

 

            Winston looked surprised. "We can do that? Without crossing the streams, that is," he added hastily.

 

            "Of course," Egon retorted. "Well, theoretically," he added.

 

            "Theoretically," Zeddemore muttered. "Wonderful." Jerking his head toward the back, he asked in a low voice, "What about Pete?"

 

            "If Ray is correct," he said, in an equally low tone, "and the counterspell is in that book, then all we should have to do is invoke it and the spell should be reversed."

 

            A slow grin spread the other man's lips. "It'll be good to have him back, but I'll kind'a miss that kid. He must've been a handful for his folks."

 

            Egon grinned, too. "Without a doubt," he agreed dryly. Then his grin faded as he returned his thoughts to the encounter to come. "But first we have to find that book," he murmured. And they still needed an extraordinary amount of luck.

  

            Ecto pulled up in front of Neeson's shop and screeched to a halt. The other three were out of the car by the time Winston had jerked the keys out of the ignition. Peter's eyes were shining with excitement as Ray and Egon helped him into a proton pack. "Wow! Does this mean I can blast the ghost?"

 

            Stepping behind the brown-haired man, Egon deftly flipped the emergency shut-down switch, effectively rendering Peter's proton pack harmless. "Only when I say so," he said crisply. He didn't dare risk letting Peter carry an armed atomic accelerator in his present condition, but they might need his firepower later when and if the counterspell worked. As Peter started to run by, Egon plucked his sleeve, pulling him up short. "With me," he reminded him sternly.

 

            Undaunted, Peter bobbed his head excitedly and tugged Egon's arm. "Okay. Let's go!"

 

            "We don't know what we're going to find in there," Spengler told them. "Everyone set to full power. We may need it."

 

            With Peter kept firmly in the rear, they burst into the darkened shop and pulled up, straining to see in the dim interior. "Neeson?" Egon called. "Are you here?"

 

            "Spengler? Is that you?" a quavering voice asked. Light suddenly blossomed in the room, causing all four men to blink. Slowly, from behind the counter, a shadowy form rose, freezing when three proton rifles immediately swung around in perfect unison. "Spengler?"

 

            The three Ghostbusters slowly lowered their weapons. "We have no time to lose, Neeson," Egon ordered. "We must leave _now_."

 

            The British occultist eased out from behind the counter, a book clutched to his chest. "Do you feel it?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "Do you sense it?"

 

            Spengler felt like his hair was alive with static electricity. The whole room felt like it was charged with some sort of incredible energy. Ray's eyes were keen with awareness and Peter was wide-eyed with astonishment as he looked around the room, conscious also of the surrounding build-up of power. The physicist nodded shortly. "We must leave," he repeated sharply. "Immediately."

 

            But Neeson seemed rooted to the floor. "Can you handle this? Can you stop whatever this is—" He broke off suddenly as he caught sight of Winston. "You!" he spluttered. "You! What are you—"

 

            Zeddemore stepped forward and wrapped strong fingers around the Englishman's arm.  "The man said, let's get movin'," he growled, and without further ceremony firmly pulled the slighter man out the door.

 

            "I suggest we follow his lead," Spengler said succinctly, and the other three ran out the door after them.

  

            "What're we doin' here? Why're we coming to _my_ house?"

 

            Egon turned to Peter, who was standing on the sidewalk, staring bewildered at his childhood home in Brooklyn. Facing the younger man, he laid both hands on his shoulders. "Peter, I don't have time to explain right now," he said carefully, "but the ghost we've been chasing is going to come here, tonight. Remember what I said—you stay with me at all times, right?"

 

            Peter's head bobbed immediately, his shoulders straightening. "I remember. I will, I promise."

 

            Spengler tightened his fingers in a squeeze. "Good boy."

 

            "Egon." The physicist turned at Ray's whisper. "It's coming," the occultist continued, his brown eyes sweeping the darkness. "Can you feel it?" he asked, awe in his voice.

 

            Spengler nodded; the air around them was thick with the-build-up of some sort of unexplainable energy. "We'd better get inside." He glanced at Neeson, who was standing beside Winston, clutching his prize book with something like desperation. "Neeson, maybe you'd better stay out here—"

 

            "And let this book out of my sight," Neeson snapped. "Not bloody likely. Where this book goes, I go."

 

            "With any luck," Egon muttered under his breath in disgust. Since they weren't going to be able to pry Neeson away from that book, it was time to strike a deal. "All right, Neeson," he said bluntly, "these are the ground rules. If you want us to bust this ghost and save that book—and your life—this is the price: We want access to that book. We want one spell out of it, that's all. Then it's yours."

 

            "Access to this—" The Englishman's eyes lit with sudden understanding. "So that's it. So that's why you jumped when I called. You need something in this book. I should have known you didn't come out of the goodness of your heart. So you need a spell, or..." The light dawned. "A counterspell." He slid his sharp gaze over the small group, apparently weighing and discarding the possibilities. "Not Stantz, and certainly not you, Spengler," he murmured. "Not the Madam's companion, either." His eyes rested on Peter, who was standing slightly behind Egon, eyeing Neeson warily. "Haven't heard much out of Venkman. Isn't he supposed to be the loquacious one? It's Venkman, isn't it?" He took a step toward Peter to get a better look at him. "Those three imbeciles used a spell out of this book and now you need—"

 

            "That's the deal, Neeson," Spengler snapped, when Peter ducked completely behind him. "Take it or leave it. And decide fast. We haven't much time."

 

            Neeson appeared to consider the offer. "It looks as if neither one of us has much choice," he said finally. "Just consider this a marriage of convenience, soon to be annulled. All right, you get the spell to undo whatever was done to Venkman; I get the book."

 

            The physicist nodded briefly. "All right, let's go. Everyone keep alert." Glancing back, he made sure Ray and Winston had the mirror, then with Peter's arm firmly in his grasp, he led the way up the steps into the house at 704 Rosemont. "The living room," he ordered. "That's where the portal is."

 

            Peter yelped suddenly. "What was _that_?"

 

            Something rushed past Egon, something cold, so cold it was chilling. "It's here," he gritted out. "Hurry." He led the way into the living room and quickly flipped on the light switch. In one corner was something that looked like a narrow, shimmering beam of light. The dimensional portal. But that wasn't what held Spengler's attention at the moment. Near the ceiling swirled a grayish mist, and when he pointed the P.K.E. meter at it, the little device promptly emitted a shrill whine, made a little popping sound, then went silent as it belched smoke from its burned-out components.

 

            Over by the doorway he heard Ray and Winston quickly setting the mirror on the floor, propping it against the wall. "Power up!" he directed, but the words were barely out of his mouth before the mist tightened into a spiral much like a tornado and dove straight for Neeson. "Look out!" he bellowed, pushing Peter safely behind him and aiming his proton rifle at the rapidly moving vapor. His stream was quickly joined by two others. It seemed to confuse the entity for a moment and it pulled back, returning to it's former place by the ceiling, where it hovered.

 

            "Egon, look! It's taking shape!" Ray slipped over to his side. "Power down!"

 

            "Power down?" Winston joined them, obediently shutting off the stream of protons, but threw a questioning look at Stantz. "Why don't we just trap this thing?"

 

            "We can't," Egon answered, keeping a wary eye on the poised entity. "I'm afraid the most we're going to be able to do with three throwers is simply annoy it."

 

            "Oh, swell," Zeddemore muttered.

 

            "Look at it!" Ray breathed. "Look at it, Egon! It's got a shape! It's—it's—"

 

            "It's Scot." From his huddled position over in a corner of the room, Neeson's strangled voice was barely audible. "It's Michael Scot. He's come for his book."

 

            Eyes widening, Egon saw that the Englishman just might be right. Even though the entity was still vaporous, it had taken on a definite human form. Spengler could make out shoulder-length hair, piercing eyes, a long, aquiline nose and a high, well-formed forehead. As he watched, the form pointed a long, thin finger at Neeson.

 

            "What's it doing?" a tenor voice whispered behind him.

 

            "He wants the book," Ray said urgently. "Egon, let me try to communicate with him."

 

            Winston stared at him in disbelief. " _Communicate_ with him? Ray, he's a _ghost_! A _dangerous_ ghost."

 

            "If it is Scot, and if all he wants is his book of spells..." Ray turned pleading eyes on Egon. "Maybe he can help Peter. If it was his spell, then he must know the counterspell. If we promise to give him the book—"

 

            "Give him the book?" Neeson spoke up angrily from his little corner. "It isn't yours to give, Stantz. We have a bargain. The book is _mine_."

 

            "The book is not yours!" Ray snapped, rounding on the man. "It's _his_."

 

            The occultist would have said more, but Egon's hand on his arm stopped him. "It may be a moot point," Spengler murmured. "We can't trap him and we can't force him through the portal."

 

            "Say what?" Winston exclaimed. "But you said—"

 

            "That was before I knew what his power level was," Egon said in a low voice. "I should have anticipated this; his power seems to be growing in direct correlation to the proximity of that book. It's gone beyond anything we could hope to handle with our equipment."

 

            "Options?" Zeddemore asked.

 

            The physicist raised his eyes to study the entity, which hadn't moved; in fact, it seemed to be following the conversation with great interest. "Right now communication may be our best chance. Go ahead, Ray." As the younger man began to move eagerly ahead, Spengler reached out and caught his arm. "But be careful," he warned, his fingers tightening. "Remember, whatever that entity decides to do, we may be able to delay it with our streams, but we won't be able to stop it."

 

            The auburn-haired man nodded. "I know." Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and tilted his head to look at the entity. "My name is Doctor Ray Stantz. We know who you are, and we know what you want. We can help each other—"

 

            Neeson broke away from his corner. "You can't—"

 

            "One more word outta you," Zeddemore growled, aiming a finger at the British occultist, "and that ghost is gonna be the least of your worries. Now stay put and shut up." Turning back, he added in a mutter, "Or we'll use one of those spells on you."

 

            "Spells!" Egon looked over sharply at Neeson's exclamation and saw the Englishman leafing madly through the book. "If those three brainless idiots could bring him here, there must be a spell in here to send him back as well," Neeson said excitedly. "All I have to do is find it..."

 

            "No!" Horrified, Egon made a lunge at the British occultist. "Neeson, don't!" If Scot even _thought_ they were trying to use his spells against him...

 

            "Ray, look out!"

 

            Peter's voice, raised in fear, snapped Egon's head around in time to see the mist-like entity dive at Ray. The auburn-haired man threw himself to the floor as Scot whizzed past him straight for Geoffrey Neeson.

 

            "Neeson!" Spengler bellowed. "Look out!"

 

            The Englishman barely had time to scream before the swirling vapor engulfed him. Through the thin veil of grayness they could all see him struggling to breathe, his mouth open to scream, but no sound emerging. As they watched in horror, he fell to his knees, the book dropping unheeded to the floor while he clawed at his throat in a futile effort to inhale. With sickening certainty, Egon realized the Wizard Scot was killing him.

 

            "No!" Spengler felt himself pushed aside as Ray ran up to the struggling Neeson. "No, you can't! Don't hurt him! Please! We'll give you what you want, just leave him alone, please! Take the book!"

 

            As they watched, the mist slowly began to rise until Neeson was in the clear. With a choked gasp, the Englishman fell over, his breathing a harsh rasp as he sought to feed his oxygen-starved lungs.

 

            The human-shape had reformed again and it floated near the ceiling, its gaze directed at Ray, who stood his ground, his head tilted. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "We don't want to hurt you. You can have the book and return to your dimension, but...we need one spell from it." The shape began to swirl angrily. "No, please listen," Ray hurried on. "Our friend, Peter, was accidentally affected by one of the spells." Moving over to Peter, Ray laid an arm around the brown-haired man's shoulders. "It was one of your spells," he said softly, turning a pleading face on the hovering Scot. "We need the counterspell to bring him back. Please help us."

 

            Egon took his eyes off Scot long enough to glance at his two friends. Ray and Peter were directly in line with the mirror, and what Egon saw was Ray standing with his arm protectively around a small boy, who was watching the proceedings with a white, frightened face.

 

            "Watch it," Winston warned. "He's moving."

 

            Egon gripped his thrower a little tighter, hearing Winston do the same. They may not be able to stop Scot from whatever he planned to do, but they could sure make it harder for him if he tried to attack. But instead of attacking, the entity whirled around the room above their heads so fast they couldn't follow it with their eyes. Then almost before Egon knew what was happening, it swooped down, diving straight for the fallen book of spells. In an instant, the book was in its hands. The wizard raised it above his head in a gesture of triumph, then turned and soared straight for the glistening portal. Ray's cry of protest was lost as Scot disappeared through the doorway. An instant later, the portal itself vanished, leaving them all in sudden, deafening silence.

 

            "Oh, no." Ray's anguished whisper tore Egon's eyes away from the place where the dimensional gateway had been. The occultist had Peter pulled to his chest in a fierce hug. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry."

 

            Over his shoulder, Peter's eyes were wide with bewilderment. "It's okay, Ray," he soothed, patting Stantz' back. "He's gone now." Venkman's eyes found Egon. "He won't be back, will he?"

 

            The blond man shook his head. "No," he said quietly, "he won't be back." Walking slowly over to the duo, he placed one arm around Ray and the other around Peter, pulling them close. In the mirror, he saw their reflection—two men and an eight-year-old boy—and sighed heavily. Their best hope to bring Peter back was gone, lost, vanished into another dimension. "I'm sorry, too, Peter."

 

            "It's all right, Mister Egon. I'm okay."

 

            'Course you're okay." Winston stepped over with an easy grin and reached out, ruffling the brown hair. "You're one tough dude."

 

            Peter wrinkled his nose, lifting a hand to smooth his hair back into place. "I hate that." He looked around, seeing furnishings visible only in his own mind. "He can't come back, can he? This is my home, y'know. He can't come back while Mom and me are asleep, can he—"

 

            "Of course not," Egon said quickly. "The gateway is closed and he has the book that was used to open it."

 

            Peter shot him a sideways look. "He won't try to open it himself, will he?"

 

            "No reason for him to," Ray said in a small voice. "He got what he came for."

 

            "My book! You gave him _my book_!" Neeson's cry of outrage gained strength as he gained his feet. "We had a bargain, Spengler! You broke your word—"

 

            "Man, I have had just about all of you I plan to take tonight." Winston stepped forward, patting his proton rifle meaningfully. "You've just worn out your welcome. Now you can leave the easy way or the hard way." A feral grin touched his features. "Personally, I vote for the hard way."

 

            Gray eyes wide with alarm, Neeson looked from the hopeful Winston to the stern features of Egon to the angry Stantz. Gathering what was left of his dignity, the Englishman drew himself up straight and made his exit. As he stepped through the doorway, he paused and turned, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. "This isn't over, Spengler," he spat, then disappeared.

 

            Egon gazed at Peter's reflection in the mirror and felt a pang in his chest. "In that, Neeson," he murmured unhappily, "you are correct."

 

            "Egon?" Spengler looked around at the sound of Winston's low voice. The black man was standing by his elbow, his eyes also on the mirror. "What do we do now? Can we get him back?"

 

            "I don't know, Winston," he answered honestly. "But we keep trying. Somewhere out there must be a spell that can work. We just have to keep searching until we find it." His voice firmed. "We're not giving up."

 

            A slow grin broke out on Zeddemore's face and he clapped the physicist's arm. "Darn right we're not. And if anybody can get Pete back, it's you and Ray—"

 

            "Egon! Look!"

 

            Spengler and Zeddemore whirled around at Ray's shout, gasping as the shimmering beam of light that indicated the dimensional portal once again appeared. As both men reached for their throwers, a single sheet of paper fluttered through the doorway and drifted to the floor. Then, as if it had never been there at all, the portal once again vanished.

 

            Ray rushed over to the paper and snatched it up. After a few moments of hasty reading, he looked up, his eyes shining with relief. "This is it!" he cried. "The counterspell! Scot gave us the counterspell!"

 

            Egon looked over to where the portal had been and closed his eyes momentarily in relief. "It was a good trade, Michael Scot," he whispered. "You got back what you wanted most, and you gave us back what we wanted most. Thank you."

 

            "Peter, you stand over here." Ray led Peter over to the mirror and placed him directly in front of it.

 

            "What's going on?" Venkman asked.

 

            Stantz stood in front of Peter and placed both hands on his shoulders. "Peter, we have to do one more thing here tonight before we leave. I just need you to stand here and be very quiet while I read the words on this paper, okay?"

 

            The brown-haired man shifted uneasily. "Yeah, I guess so," he said uncertainly.

 

            "Peter." Venkman looked up at the sound of Egon's steady bass. "It's all right. Nothing's going to happen to you. Remember what I said?"

 

            A slight smile touched the psychologist's face. "Yeah, I remember."

 

            "Now, Peter..." Ray took Peter's hand and guided it to the mirror. "I want you to touch the glass and keep your hand there. Don't let go." As an afterthought, he added gently, "And close your eyes. It'll all be over in a minute."

 

            When Peter hesitated, Egon assured him, "We'll be right here, Peter."

 

            After glancing at both Ray and Egon, Venkman nodded his head and closed his eyes, the fingers of one hand touching the glass of the mirror.

 

            Ray took a step back, drew in a deep breath, and carefully read the words on the paper. Egon held his own breath, watching both Peter and the mirror for any sign of change. It took Ray only seconds to read the spell and he had barely finished the last word when the paper in his hands burst into flame. With a cry of surprise, he dropped the rapidly disintegrating page. At the same instant, a flash of light seemed to explode from the mirror, engulfing them all in a blinding light. Peter yelped, jerking his hand away an instant before the glass in the mirror shattered, falling in thousands of tiny, jagged pieces to the floor.

 

            When their vision cleared, all eyes shot to Peter, who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, a dazed look on his face.

 

            "Peter?" Ray walked slowly over toward the psychologist and knelt down beside him, reaching out to tentatively touch his shoulder. "Peter, are you all right?"

 

            Venkman looked at Ray, puzzlement in his green eyes. "Why wouldn't I be all right, Ray?"

 

            "How do you feel, Peter?" Egon interjected.

 

            Peter turned his perplexed gaze on Spengler. "Why is everybody looking at me?" He raised his hand, carefully checking his hair. "Have I got slime in my hair or something? I do, don't I? Didn't I tell you this was going to happen? Didn't I tell you I was going to get slimed?" He grimaced, searching for the ectoplasm he was sure was in his hair. "Geez, Tex, and this is your idea of _fun_ —" Peter broke off in surprise as Ray threw himself at him, pulling him into a fierce hug.

 

            "Oh, Peter, you're _okay_!"

 

            Eyes wide, Venkman immediately returned the embrace, patting Ray reassuringly on the back. "Of course I'm okay, Ray. I'm fine." Gently pulling away, he held the occultist at arms' length, searching Ray's face, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the fresh bruise on Ray's forehead. "Are _you_ okay?" Reaching out, he carefully brushed aside a thick strand of hair, uncovering the purplish mark. "Did the class five do this?"

 

            "It's nothing," Stantz said happily. "I'm fine. I'm great. I'm _wonderful_!"

 

            Peter blinked at the irrepressible enthusiasm in Ray's words. "Glad to hear it, pard." Looking up at Egon, he grinned mischievously. "What about you, Spengs? Are you fine-great-wonderful, too?"

 

            Egon nodded, a broad smile on his face. "I am indeed, Peter."

 

            Venkman turned to Winston, raising an eyebrow. "Care to make it unanimous, Zed?"

 

            Zeddemore grinned, black eyes twinkling. "You got it, homeboy."

 

            Peter gave Ray one more long look, as if to reassure himself Ray really was okay, then said, "I take it we trapped the nasty?"

 

            "Everything's all wrapped up here, Peter," Egon told him.

 

            "Well, in that case..." Venkman heaved a heartfelt sigh. "Can we go home now?"

 

            "We sure can," Ray said softly, and gave Peter another quick hug before he climbed to his feet, extending his hand to pull Peter up.

 

            Venkman accepted the hand up, his eyes falling on the pieces of glass on the floor. "Blasted the mirror, didn't you, Ray?" The occultist just grinned. "That's seven years bad luck."

 

            Stantz touched Venkman's arm, his brown eyes warm. "It was worth it."

 

            Egon let his gaze rest on Venkman as the others prepared to leave. He didn't need a mirror to tell him they had their Peter back. With a smile and a light step, he turned to follow Ray and Winston, then hesitated when he realized Peter wasn't following. Turning back, he found the psychologist standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his back straight and much too rigid. Walking silently back into the room, he stopped behind Peter, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

            "Peter? Are you all right?"

 

            Venkman quickly brushed at his eyes. "It's just a little...harder than I thought it'd be, Spengs. I mean, I knew there would be memories...but I didn't know they'd be so...so damn fresh. It's like I just left here yesterday. I can see Mom like she was really standing here. It feels like she should just walk into the room..."

 

            Peter's voice trailed off, and Egon tightened his fingers. "I know," he said softly. "If you'd like to be alone for a while—"

 

            The brown head shook. "No," Peter said definitely, "I don't want to stay here." Turning misty eyes on the older man, he stated, "I want to go home."

 

            _Home._ Nodding his understanding, Egon slid an arm across the younger man's shoulders and gently turned him away from the kitchen. Later, they would have to talk. Memories might come filtering back and Egon wanted Peter to be prepared for the possible onslaught. But for now, they would simply go home.

  

            Peter Venkman placed a pan of milk on a burner of the stove and flicked on the heat. Warm milk always worked to put him to sleep when he was a kid, it should work now. _When he was a kid_. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lately he'd been thinking a lot about when he was a kid. And why not? he asked himself grimly. He _had_ been a kid only a few days ago. When they got home from the bust in Brooklyn, Egon and Ray, with Winston standing by for support, had sat him down and told him what had happened, how he had been under a spell and thought he was eight years old. At first, it was kind of funny, hearing about his crush on Janine and reading Ray's comics and giving Egon a hard time. But it wasn't funny any longer.

 

            It stopped being funny when he realized the trip back to adulthood carried some unwanted baggage with it. Old childhood insecurities that he thought he had left behind years ago clung to him like a second skin, settling resolutely in his subconscious, and try as he might, he hadn't been able to shake them off.

 

            Pressing his hands flat on the kitchen counter, he dropped his head, closing his eyes. Why the hell did that spell have to put him smack into the middle of the worst year of his life? He could still remember his grandmother's death and the terror that had engulfed him the moment he realized he could lose—really _lose_ —someone he loved. His mother's illness, hard on the heels of his grandma's death, had driven that point home with unforgiving cruelness. It seemed like only yesterday that he was standing on his stoop, watching the ambulance take his mother away. He had cried, begged, screamed, but they wouldn't let him go with her. He had been so sure she was going to die, so sure she was going to leave him, too. There had been no way to contact his father—actually, no way to get him out of jail—so he had been packed off to his Aunt Josie's in Philadelphia while his mother was ill. Peter's mouth tightened as he remembered those weeks. His cousins were bigger, older and relentless in taunting their smaller, younger cousin. He had been miserable, friendless and alone. It was the worst time of his life. But as he got older he had managed to more or less block the entire year out of his memory...until now.

 

            Opening his eyes, he blew out a pent-up breath. Even though he didn't actually remember those days he was under the spell, the impressions of being eight years old were fresh and clear in his mind. He was a trained psychologist—and a darn good one—but he was having a hard time working past the remnants of the raw, adolescent emotions that he suddenly found washing over him.

 

            Turning back to the stove, he stirred the warming milk, a fleeting smile touching his face. Of course, those painful memories from that year had a new ingredient now. When he was eight years old, he had found himself completely alone at one point, without even the love and support of his family. Softening that memory now was the warmth of love, the fortification of friendship, the knowledge that he was not alone, would never be alone. He knew, of course, that it hadn't happened that way, that there had been no Egon, Ray or Winston in his life back then to offer him the support he enjoyed now...but just as the bad memories of his past had insinuated themselves into his present, the good memories of the present had somehow implanted themselves in his past. He shook his head. All those memories and all those emotions were all mixed up in his head now, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to sort them out.

 

            He opened a cabinet door, digging out a can of instant cocoa. The guys, of course, had been great. Egon had been watching him like a mother hen, trying not to be obvious about it and failing miserably; Winston always seemed to manage to be somewhere nearby; and he didn't think Ray had let him out of his sight since that night in Brooklyn. Despite his friends' companionship and support, however, he had fallen victim to his old nemesis, insomnia, and he was having a hard time shaking it. His buddies knew something was going on with him, of course, but he didn't think they knew exactly what, or why. He sighed, dipping a spoon into the can of cocoa. How could they? He wasn't sure himself.

 

            "That is _not_ the way you make hot chocolate," a stern voice announced from the doorway. Peter grinned as he allowed himself to be nudged away from the stove. "I thought I taught you better than that."

 

            Venkman sat down happily at the table, content to watch as Egon, clad in his nightshirt, gathered the necessary ingredients to prepare honest-to-goodness old-fashioned hot chocolate. No instant cocoa when Spengs made it. He couldn't say he was surprised to find Egon down here in the middle of the night; it certainly wouldn't be the first midnight snack the two of them had shared when something was bothering one or the other. A few minutes later a mug of the steaming brown liquid was placed in front of him, little marshmallows bobbing on the surface. He took a careful sip as Egon sat down opposite him and sighed in appreciation at the rich flavor. "Ahhh. Spengs, you make the second best cocoa I've ever tasted." Egon sent him a sharp look at the same instant it registered to Peter what he had said. He dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, shit," he muttered.

 

            A large hand immediately gripped his shoulder. "Peter?" The fingers tightened. "Are you all right?"

 

            Venkman raised his head, producing a strained smile. "Bad case of _deja vu_ , old buddy," he explained shakily. "Been having a lot of those lately."

 

            The physicist nodded gravely. "I thought as much. Is that why you haven't been able to sleep?"

 

            "How did you know—" He broke off the question as one blond brow arched in a way that reminded Peter that when Egon Spengler paid attention to something other than his work, not much got past him...especially when it concerned his friends. He rubbed his eyes. "More or less," he admitted.

 

            "Peter." Venkman dropped his hands, finding himself caught in a concerned blue gaze. "Will you talk to me? Please?"

 

            Peter shrugged, dropping his eyes. "Not much to tell, big guy. I've just got a lot of memories floating around in my head and I'm having a tough time getting them all sorted out. I feel like I've gone through some sort of time warp." He grimaced. "Beam me up, Scotty."

 

            "How can I help?"

 

            That quiet, warm offer brought Venkman's eyes back up and he lifted the mug of cocoa, holding it up as if offering a toast. "You are helping, Spengs," he said seriously. "Just like you always do. Just like you always have." He laughed shakily. "I could've used you guys in my life for real about twenty-five years ago."

 

            Egon leaned across the table, blue eyes solemn, and moved his hand to Venkman's forearm. "We're here _now_ , Peter."

 

            A genuine smile touched Venkman's lips. "Don't I know it," he said softly.

 

            "And we'll always be here for you, Peter."

 

            Both men looked up at that quiet, but firm, declaration. Ray Stantz was standing in the kitchen doorway and behind him stood Winston. Peter shot a questioning look at Egon, who merely gave him a knowing look. So now the whole team was up. "What'd I do, set off an alarm?"

 

            Ray walked into the kitchen and stopped behind Peter, placing both hands on his shoulders. "In a way."

 

            Peter bit his lip, then reached up and gripped a hand on his shoulder. Of course he set off an alarm, just like a signal went off inside him whenever something was troubling one of his friends. They were all bound together—Ray, Egon, Winston and himself—as only a family could be. And the truth was there for him to see in big, bold letters: He would never be alone again, he would never again be without the support of family.

 

            "Being a friend isn't always easy," Peter quoted softly, "but it's almost always worth the effort, right, Tex?"

 

            The fingers on his shoulders tightened. "Right."

 

            Peter tightened his own fingers and looked around him, drinking in Winston's grinning visage, Egon's perceptive blue gaze and Ray's soft smile. He knew himself well enough to know his insomnia was here to stay for the night, but he also knew his friends well enough to know they didn't intend to let him see it through by himself. "For some inexplicable reason," he said suddenly, "I've got this incredible craving to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark."

 

            "Really, Peter?" Ray's delighted face bobbed into view. "You want me to get the tape?"

 

            Venkman grinned affectionately. "Yeah, Ray, why don't you do that? We can see what ol' Indiana Jones is up to."

 

            Ray gave his shoulders a gentle shake, then trotted off to start the movie. Winston pushed himself away from the door jam with a grin. "And I'll scrounge up some popcorn." He clapped Peter on the shoulder as he passed and Venkman could only shake his head at his extraordinary luck and his friends' extraordinary loyalty. With a contented sigh, he finished his hot chocolate.

 

            "Peter?" Egon's inquisitive bass brought his head up. Spengler gazed at him over the rim of his glasses as he got to his feet. "An 'incredible craving to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark'?"

 

            Venkman shook his head in real puzzlement as he, too, gained his feet. "Can you believe I said that? Ray's had me sit through that movie so many times I could recite the dialog _backwards_. I told him I'd _never_ watch it again."

 

            There was a muffled snicker behind him and Peter

 

turned, eyes narrowed. "Something you'd care to share with the class, Winston?"

 

            "Not me, m'man," Zeddemore said cheerfully, removing the popped popcorn from the microwave. As he passed the psychologist, he added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Maybe you'd better ask Egon," and quickly left the kitchen.

 

            Peter's narrow-eyed gaze turned to the physicist, who was watching him with a glint of mischief in his eyes. This was not a good sign. If Spengler had dirt on him, that could mean he was in for some unmerciful teasing. "There's something you're not telling me, right, big guy?" he asked suspiciously. "Something I did while I was under that spell?" Poking the older man in the chest with his finger, he demanded, "Come on, Egon, give."

 

            The sound of Spengler's warm chuckle filled the room as he turned Peter around and dropped a companionable arm across his shoulders. Tightening his arm to bring the psychologist a little closer, he led him to the TV room where the adventures of Indiana Jones were awaiting him.

 

            "That's _Mister_ Egon to you, young man..."

 

**_end_ **

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